2 Thunderbirds Are Go: Titan
by Math Girl
Summary: In the year 2065, a pair of high-risk, fun-loving explorers become stranded on Titan while filming their show, and International Rescue must come to their aid, splitting the team at a critical moment.
1. Chapter 1

**Thunderbirds Are Go: Titan**

 **1**

 _Tracy Island, before sunrise-_

For just a few moments longer, the house was still, peaceful and quiet; beginning to glow in the silvery light before dawn. Three of the boys lay in their newly reconstructed bedroom suites, with assorted visitors. One was just sneaking back in from a clandestine "field trip". Max drowsed in sleep mode, down in the ring. Like the rest of the house, the sunken comm center was both brand new, and exactly the way they all remembered it, thanks to detailed scans and painstaking programs. An appetizing aroma was just beginning to waft through the air, and it would no doubt have awakened everyone, soon. Unfortunately, no one had a chance to find out.

Jeff picked up a big metal garbage can and a baseball bat, and began striding through the house, slamming the bat around inside that galvanized steel can, making more noise than a cement mixer filled with cannon balls and loose change.

 _"ON YOUR FEET!"_ he bellowed at the top of his very considerable lungs. _"MESS CALL! Breakfast is ready!"_

Back in his almost-right quarters (Brains had inexplicably programmed those microstructures to place his closet door in the bathroom) Scott sat bolt upright, dislodging Penelope.

"Breakfast?" he repeated, sounding hopeful.

Penny was much less enthused. She had arrived with Parker and Bertie only the night before, having been smoothing things out with the World Council, back in London. The Hood's condition had not gone unremarked, it seemed, and hard questions were being asked about the emotional stability of International Rescue's prime operatives.

"Good heavens, what _is_ that beastly racket?!" she hissed, hurrying to kiss Scott and struggle back into her dressing gown. Grandma Tracy did not hold with open cohabitation, and would only turn her blind eye so far.

"It's breakfast," Scott whispered back, racing to put on his own clothes, and then holding the balcony door open for Lady Penelope. "Trust me," he told her, as his father continued to bellow and crash, "it's worth it!"

"I _do_ so despise early mornings!" Penny grumbled, as Scott lifted her up and over to her own railed balcony. (At the pilot's request, Brains had made the balconies wider, and nudged them much closer together.) Sherbert was barking, bounding and chasing his tail over there, ecstatic at the return of his lovely young mistress.

Scott took Penny's head in both hands and tipped it forward to kiss her tousled blonde hair.

"See you downstairs, Pen," he told her. Then, after a deep breath and warm eye contact, he added, "Love you."

Penelope's jaw dropped and her soft pink mouth fell open. He'd never said anything to her, before, about love.

"I… I… thank you, Scott. I… of course, needless to say… only too happy. Erm… the sentiment is… is returned. Absolutely."

Not what he'd been expecting, as it happened. His handsome face grew rigid and tense. Then, Scott forced a smile.

"Right," he said, quietly. "Talk to you later, Penny."

Meanwhile, Alan and Gordon were already at breakfast; the one having bounded downstairs three at a time, the other having just come back in. The usual Tracy meal-blessing: 'Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghostest, the one who's firstest, eats the mostest!' had already been said by one of them, at some point… probably with his mouth full.

Now they were stuffing their faces with pancakes, bacon, toast and eggs, threatening to devour the entire spread before anyone else could even show up. Jeff stood over them with a fond smile. He was wearing a big, canvas "Kiss the Cook" apron over his jeans and IR tee shirt, and he was morning-barefoot, with dabs of flour still smeared on his face, hands and grey hair. The garbage can and baseball bat had been set aside, leaning against the unused auto-chef.

Grandma was next to come in. She entered the dining area with Captain Taylor, snapping,

"Jeffrey, them kids ain't in boot camp, and we got guests! Mind your manners, before I put you over my knee! You ain't too old to feel the back of my hand, Boy!"

Alan and Gordon kept their faces straight only by bending low over the glorious food… but it was a very near thing.

"Yes, Ma. I'm sorry!" Jeff pulled out two chairs for his mother and chuckling best friend. "Now, have a seat, and prepare to feast!"

…because if there was one thing Jeff Tracy could do, it was cook. The rest of the family filed in a few at a go; the older boys carefully not at _quite_ the same time as their female guests. Grandma merely snorted at their tissue-thin pretenses, and focused on her plate. Only Brains didn't show, being still too weary after three solid days of non-stop construction programming. The others more than made up for his absence, though.

"This is incredible, Dad," said Virgil, over eggs that weren't concrete-hard, carbonized lumps, and bacon that wasn't half raw. Like Gordon, he'd been eating steadily since reaching the table; vacuuming up anything that wasn't red- hot, nailed down, or cremated by Grandma. Jeff was kept very busy in the kitchen, flipping pancakes from griddle to plate by the score, with Max zipping back and forth, playing waiter. He looked up at Virgil's admiring, mouth-filled comment, frowning, slightly.

"You mean… six years, and _none_ of you have learned to cook?!" Jeff demanded.

"Well…" John offered, in the general, embarrassed silence, "Kayo makes campfire pizza, on special occasions."

"I can microwave popcorn!" chimed Alan, looking as round and smeared as though he'd won first place at a championship eating contest. "It's really good with ketchup and butter!"

Kayo's frosty disgust was obvious to everyone but Alan, who continued, brightly,

"If you put a lettuce leaf on top, and close your eyes, it tastes almost like hamburgers!"

O'Bannon shifted her grey eyes from John, to Alan and back, mouthing: _He's kidding, right?_ But John shook his head, saying silently: _No... afraid not._

"That's it," Jeff announced, briskly. "Starting this afternoon, it's kitchen 101. We'll begin with the basics: spaghetti. Anyone not present will be confined to desk detail, for a week. Understood?"

Among the general chorus of "yes, Sirs", Alan's response stood out. His large, sky-blue eyes were wide with something like love.

"Spaghetti…?" he repeated, as though angels had flashed him a glimpse of the Holy Grail. "Why wait, Dad?! I'm ready, _now_!"

Kayo hadn't sat down, at all. When she'd first become a member of the family, the small girl had refused to sit in a child's high-chair for meals. It was an old wooden hand-me-down, anyhow, with straps and buckles much stained and chewed on by four older brothers. And even back then, she would not be pinned down, nor hemmed in. Instead, she'd been handed around the table from lap to lap, eating whatever she liked from all their plates in turn; being kissed and made much of by Grandma, Dad and her brothers. (Except for Alan. Back then, he hadn't been willing to share.)

Now, she made her circuit of the table leaning across her brothers' shoulders to stab things off their plates with her fork. Dad and Grandma and Uncle Lee, too. At each brief stop, she generally got a shoulder bump or a side-hug, ate, then moved on. Everyone was too accustomed to this set-up to comment, or explain things to Kraft and O'Bannon.

The two young women had come to an understanding a few days previous, having met at last, by the pool deck. Both were GDF officers; one a captain, one a lieutenant, neither in uniform. They'd stared at one another for a few long moments, until O'Bannon shrugged, laughed and said,

"Whatever!"

Sticking her hand out, she'd announced,

"Captain Ridley O'Bannon, Space Corps, Global-1."

Kraft smiled back at her, clasped the hand warmly, then let go.

"Lieutenant Emma Kraft, GDF Navy, Union Jack.:

Then, with more laughter and mischief sparkling in her grey eyes, O'Bannon said,

"John."

…Which Kraft had countered with,

"Virgil."

…After which they fallen to chatting like sisters; comparing notes on careers, command, and on how they'd each met their respective Tracy. Now, they watched Kayo's behavior with mingled interest and confusion. Pretty clearly, the girl was held to a different standard of behavior than her brothers, and it would take a while to fully comprehend the Tracy family dynamics.

Gordon had been aloof from the general chaos and foolery, because he was sitting with an electronic notepad on his lap, trying to watch a show and eat at the same time. It was that, or stare at Lady Penelope, which he did _not_ want to openly do. That's why he failed to notice when Kayo got 'round to his position. Instead of going for his plate, however, the girl leaned close and made a loud popping sound in his right ear.

 _"Ow!_ Hey, what's that in aid of?!" Gordon demanded, turning to face her, while rubbing hard at his ringing ear.

"Family time, Gordon. You're meant to be interacting, remember?" Kayo corrected him, her green eyes both friendly and mocking. "Want the rest of your bacon?" she asked in a low voice, while helping herself.

"Guess not," he sighed, tilting his head for another swift peek at the poorly concealed tablet.

"What're you watching?" she enquired, having pretty much cleaned his plate, by now.

 _"Trying_ to watch. It's Buddy and Ellie. They're on Titan, in pursuit of the elusive Titanean Mud Worm… only part two isn't coming up, yet. All it says is 'TBA', to be announced. Been over a week, already! I want to find out what happens!" Then, more slowly, "Hey… you don't think they're in _trouble_ , do you, Kay?"

The girl snorted, sounding a lot like Grandma.

"Knowing Buddy and Ellie Pendergast, I'd say "signs point to yes", Gordon. And speaking of trouble… do you think something's wrong with Scott?"

"Scott?" Gordon repeated vaguely, trying to refresh the webpage, again.

"Yeah. Scott. You know… our brother? Fearless leader? Crack pilot and general pain in the arse? Tall, blue eyes, gloomy expression… can't miss him."

Growling impatiently, Gordon gave up on his tablet, and turned to look 'round for Scott, who did, indeed, seem rather quiet.

"Eh. He'll do. You know Scott. He's always depressed when he's not in the air. Probably just needs some stick time. Invite him up to race you in Shadow, or something. He'll perk right up. Bet me."

Kayo smiled at her sandy-haired brother. Then, sniffing audibly, she said,

"You smell good, Gordon."

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Pancake syrup and seawater," he joked. "Drives all the females wild."

She shoved him a little by way of response. When she'd been very little, Kayo hadn't understood about kisses. In attempting to copy the gesture, she'd just blown loud, spit-y raspberries on everyone's cheeks. Now, in a playful and affectionate mood, she blew one against the side of Gordon's unshaven face, and then moved on to John. (Bypassing Alan, because he'd defiantly covered his plate with a napkin. No matter… she'd get him back, later. He had to sleep, sometime.)

The astronaut had carefully eaten exactly half of his food, leaving the rest for Kayo. She came to hang over the shoulder on his _other_ side, away from Captain O'Bannon. Not jealous, precisely… just wary.

"Morning, Brother-mine," she said, around her new mouthful. They'd shared food equally since that first day, when he'd given her half a peanut butter sandwich, by way of hello.

"Morning, Little-Bit," he replied, keeping his voice down. "What's new?"

"Nothing much," the girl whispered back, her dark ponytail brushing his shoulder. "Scott's in a bad way, and Gordon thinks that the Pendergasts may be up against it, once more. Could you do some research?"

"I'll investigate both situations, but Scott…"

"Probably just needs to go flying?" Said Kayo, finishing his food and his sentence, both.

"Actually, I was going to say that he's not sitting next to Penelope, for once. Maybe they've had a fight?" Such things happened, he knew. In theory, at least.

"Huh! You're right, John," Kayo whispered. "They're not sitting cheek-by-jowl, trying to hold hands, or _anything_ … and Penny hasn't touched her food, which doesn't make sense, 'cause it's actually good. Wonder what's up? Tell you what, Brother-mine… you find out about Buddy and Ellie, and I'll see what's troubling our former lovebirds. Meet you back with the facts, this afternoon."

Nothing piqued Kayo's interest like a mystery, or the sight of a fleeing suspect. Tracking, chase and capture were her particular delight.

"Don't get too inquisitive," John advised her. "Personal stuff can get messy. You end up getting blamed by _both_ sides, when you try to interfere in an argument."

Kayo wrinkled her nose at him.

"Says the man with exactly two weeks' relationship experience!" she mocked, elbowing her brother in the ribs.

"I learn fast," he told the girl, rising to help Grandma clear plates. "Meet you in the usual place, before, um… 'cooking class'. Anyhow, it's one emotional mess, and two lost explorers; probably just out of gas. Seriously, how bad could it be?"


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks, Tikatu and Bow Echo, for reviewing. No Siamese cats were dislodged in the making of this chapter, I swear!

 **2**

 _Tracy Island, after breakfast and cleanup-_

Kayo flipped herself athletically from the ornate railing above, onto Penelope's balcony. She landed like a cat, rising from her ready crouch, with fluid, taut-muscled grace. Took a moment to control her own breathing and heartrate; to remind herself that Penelope wasn't a criminal. Then she jimmied the locked French doors and stalked within that flowery pink boudoir.

Penny was flushed, blotchy and packing. Her suitcases lay open on the bed, already half-filled with lacy pastel nothings and expensive designer clothes. Poor Sherbert, sensing her mood, kept bringing his favourite toys to lay at her feet, or heaving his pudgy small body onto those short back legs, to place two gentle paws on her calf. Penny scarcely noticed. Her blonde hair was mussed, and her light, neutral makeup had smudged. In short, the subject was extremely upset, and attempting to flee. Also, too emotional to notice an intruder.

So, Kayo cleared her throat, stepped forward, and said (striving to sound calming and sisterly),

"Hullo, Penny! Going somewhere?"

Lady Penelope gave a startled cry and ninja-turned, landing in ready position, with both hands raised to present their knife-edge. An effect somewhat spoilt by the fuzzy bedroom mules and floaty pink dress she was wearing.

"Oh! Kayo! I… I fear that I am unprepared to entertain, at the moment… _(sniffle)_ … do, pray, excuse me."

Kayo shook her pony- tailed head, folded her arms across her chest, and took a lean on Penny's ransacked ivory bureau.

"Sorry, Penelope. Can't do that. I'm on a case. Wanted to find out what you've learnt about the situation in London. Is… is John in any danger?"

Penny relaxed her guard a bit, as intended. She folded one last naughty underthing, and put it away in her vintage Louis Vuitton packing case. Taking a deep breath, the young noblewoman dashed a trembling hand at her cornflower-blue eyes, and said,

"Quite possibly so, I am sorry to say. The World Council is terribly disturbed that, erm… 'these unlicensed, so-called heroes feel free to dispense vigilante justice at their own whims', etc. Worse, once the Hood awakens, they intend questioning him as to the identity and motive of his assailant."

She sniffled, again, patting about the pockets of her dress for a tissue. Kayo, who was always prepared, handed one over.

"Thank you, Dear Girl… now, what was I about to…? Oh, yes. If identified, our John may very well face disciplinary action from the GDF, as they are quite able to revoke his leave of absence and create him a Space Corps Leftenant, once more."

Kayo's vivid green eyes narrowed, and her face hardened.

" _Sh*t,"_ she spat. "I forgot that you _never_ walk away from the GDF… not if they decide that they want you. He'd be right back in their power, and liable for court-martial. That's one relationship that _never_ ends."

Penny nodded, her eyes welling with tears as Kayo's unfortunate choice of words hit home and bit deep. Still, grist for the mill, and all that, so…

"You're really upset about this, aren't you, Penelope? I mean, here you are, practically in tears, rushing back to London… all to help save my favourite ginger."

The lovely blonde said nothing at all for a long, trembly moment. Merely stood there, wringing her hands. Then, bending down to scoop little Sherbert into her arms, she buried her face in his short, tan fur and began to cry. Actual, genuine tears.

Kayo squashed a surge of disgust and contempt. Why, the last time she'd seen someone cry, it had been a few silent tears sliding down Alan's face, when she'd had to field-splint his shattered right arm with a branch, his sash, and her bra. Long story.

Instead of snapping at the silly thing to pull herself together, Kayo forced a sympathetic expression. (Having conveniently forgotten her own violent tears, on seeing her father, again. But then, we never really look at _ourselves_.)

"Penny… are you quite all right?" she asked, injecting more warmth than she felt.

"I… I… there, Bertie! Don't take on, so, Dearest! Mummy and Da have had a bit of a tiff, that's all… It'll all come right in the end. You'll see." Followed by a lot of ridiculous, incoherent sobbing.

Right, time to do the sisterly, she supposed. Too bad that Kraft or O'Bannon weren't present… Kayo had a notion that either of _them_ would have been better at all this. Nevertheless, she crossed the carpeted floor to pat Penny's heaving right shoulder, getting only a half-hearted growl from Sherbert.

"Now, now. Tell me all about it, Penny. I'm sure that whatever's wrong between you two can be patched up. Give him beer… offer him sex… cook a meal. What else do men need?"

Seemed perfectly clear to _her_ , at any rate. But Penelope only sobbed harder.

"He… he s- said 'love you'!" she just about howled.

"Annnd… that's bad?" Kayo enquired, becoming slightly confused.

"I w… I w… I wasn't _ready!_ He's n- n- never said that before! One d- d- doesn't simply spring such th- things! One leads up! One s- suggests!"

"Ohhh…" the picture was coming into sharper focus, now. "So… he ambushed you with the 'L-word'… and you didn't toss it right back? Is that it?"

Penelope nodded, her bloated red face buried in both shaking hands, Sherbert squeezed like a whimpering, face-licking, fat little pillow.

"Well… _do_ you love him?" Kayo asked, coming right to the point, as always.

Penny's hands dropped. She looked wildly up at the other girl, and said, hoarsely,

"He's _everything_ , Kayo! _Everything!_ I just… I suppose that I hadn't given the matter any real thought… I was simply enjoying myself… enjoying _him…_ and never considering that he might wish a future for us." (Big, long sniffle, more tears. What a _mess!)_

"Mmm-hmm… So, on further consideration, does our Scott sound like a good, long-term bargain? Something you'd want to keep, once the newness wears off? He's not bad-looking, in a stiff, rigid, constipated sort of way. Got rather nice blue eyes."

Penelope giggled while weeping, which one had to _see_ to comprehend.

"He _is_ a bit like that, isn't he, Bertie… but so very dear in other ways. So helpless, sometimes. I suppose that we _do_ love your Da… don't we?"

Relieved that an end to the waterworks was at last in sight, Kayo smiled, flung her arms out a bit, then clapped and rubbed them briskly before her.

"Right, then! Problem solved. If I know Scott, his pride's taken a hit, and he's sunk in the depths, writing bad poetry or getting quite drunk. All you have to do is march in there, tell him how you feel, toss him onto his back, and… you know… seal the deal, as it were." The fact that she was discussing her _brother_ like that, made Kayo blush hot as a stoplight.

But Penelope's mood had changed. Reaching under her pillow, she pulled out a flat silver filigreed flask. Unstopping the bottle, she took a quick sip, then held it out to Kayo.

"You really think that will work?" she enquired, a bit of hope creeping into her anxious expression.

Kayo accepted the bottle, sniffed, and then smiled. Fine cognac, she thought. Cautiously, the girl took a small, warming drink, and felt the glow spread entirely through her body.

"Of course, it'll work," she scoffed. "The distance between a man's stomach and his heart… or his crotch and his heart, is pretty short." Then, handing the bottle back, "At least _you_ have that option. Everyone here who's hot, is my d*mn _brother!"_

Penny giggled again, taking another quick nip from the bottle.

"Well, dear, it's not as if you're actually related… not genetically. Seems to be rather an emotional barrier, than a physical one, so long as the fellow under consideration isn't already spoken for."

Once again, the flask changed hands. Kayo drank, sighed, and then admitted, in a very small voice,

"Well… I have this crush on Virgil, you see."

Penny took back the flask, sipped again, and then cocked her head to one side. Pursing her lips consideringly, she said,

"I don't believe he returns that sentiment, Kayo."

The girl shook her head, blushing once more.

"No. I know that. It's just… he's _Virgil._ The muscles, the looks, the sweetness… Only, sometimes… and dammit, no more drinking, before I spill where Grandma's buried the family silver… Sometimes, I dream at night, and it's about _John!_ Doesn't end with just a hug, either!"

Penny reached over to give her a gently consoling pat.

"The dear boy has only just discovered that he exists below the neck, as anything more than a champion bowler… erm… ' _pitcher'_ , that is. Let's not confuse him any further, shall we?"

Again, Kayo shook her head.

"I wouldn't do that, Penny. I actually love him too much to put things down on that level. It's just my body that's all confused, lately. I don't know what to do, anymore!"

Lady Penelope had ceased crying, by now, having turned her mind to Kayo's rather serious dilemma.

"Well…" she mused, settling herself down at the edge of the big, squashy bed, "If you're not put off by a 'fixer-upper', there's always Gordon. Now _that's_ a young man in dire need of a firm, guiding hand, if ever there was one. And _he's_ not bad-looking, at all… in an athletic, tom cat, more-courage-than-sense sort of way. Beautiful body. _Do_ suggest that you speak with Grandma Tracy, first, however, as she may have strong feelings on the matter."

Her head spinning with hormones and brandy, Kayo gave Penny and Sherbert a sudden, tight hug.

"I'll take it under advisement," said the girl. "Now," Kayo gestured toward the bedroom's grandly carved double doors, "Your prince awaits, milady. Go get 'im!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, down in Brains' lab-_

John sat at a console near the back of the complex, staring into its spinning blue data-globe, and manipulating information. Of course, he could simply have called Adventure Flix, Limited, and asked them what the h*ll was going on… but that would have taken time, and required a level of human interaction that he just didn't want. The astronaut's computer hacking skills were such that he didn't need to _ask_. He could go where he wished, and take whatever he pleased, in the way of data. No one else was good enough even to _notice_ , much less get in his way.

So, cracking the production company's password took _maybe_ three seconds. Gaining root, four or five more. After that, their system was his. Cascades of alphanumeric code swirled through the globe; files and windows flicked past in their thousands. John had removed the earpiece that helped control his data-flow issues, because, right then, he actually _wanted_ the flood. There was only so much he could consciously handle, but the rest got in there, too; to be filed away until needed; appearing as a sudden insight or hunch.

The files on Buddy and Ellie Pendergast were quite large and numerous. They were the Adventure Flix cash-cow, providing huge license and marketing revenues… and they'd gone missing.

John drew a hand through the globe and flicked two fingers, moving files around as he searched for distress calls and urgent messages. Those glowing files were reflected in miniature in John's narrowed blue-green eyes, making him look eerily like a machine, himself.

"Uh-oh," he said, after gazing at a particular comm thread. _"That's_ not good."

Double-plus un-good, actually; in a 'better get there right the h*ll _now_ ' kind of way. John would have reached at once for his wrist comm, but then his father walked through the door, coming into the lab from the house, above.

Immediately, John shut off the data globe, put his earpiece back in, and rose from his seat.

"Morning, Sir," he greeted his father.

"Good morning, John. Busy? Or have you got a few minutes to spare for your old man?"

That was surprising. Jeff Tracy had never been the sort to ask for time or attention. He'd always simply expected it.

"Yes, Sir," John replied, growing a little wary. "What can I do for you?"

Jeff came farther into that beeping, blinking room, and clasped John's left shoulder, briefly. Then, after giving him a quick, friendly shake, Jeff let go and stepped back.

"Have a seat, Son," he told John, dragging another chair around for himself. "There's, uh… something I need to tell you. Ordinarily, I'd say this to Scott, but he seems a little overburdened, just now, so… _tag_ , you're it."

John folded his arms across his chest, sitting back in the chair; defensive as h*ll.

"Go ahead, Sir. I'm listening."

"Right… no easy way to say this, Son, so… I'm leaving. Day after tomorrow, I report to Central Command, in London. I've been reactivated."

John's arms dropped away from his chest. Startled, he leaned forward in the chair, making it squeak backward on its wheels, slightly.

"But, Dad… you're _retired._ They can't do that… can they?"

Colonel Tracy tapped a big hand several times on the armrest of his own chair, and then shrugged.

"I'm afraid they can, Son. It's in the contract, remember?"

John thought back, grew a touch paler, and then nodded.

"Yes, Sir. Fine print, column four, section 2B, subsection thirty: _All duly sworn personnel shall be subject to recall at need, etc._ Dammit."

Jeff made a brief, rueful face.

"Exactly. That's how it is, and that's why I'm leaving. No choice in the matter. That means that your brother is back in the hot seat, with _you_ , I hope, in there, one-hundred percent, backing him up. Apparently, there was some friction… some confusion… during the last mission. It ends. _Now."_

John nodded, saying,

"Yes, Sir. I'll do better about reporting my actions and movements. Scott mentioned that, already, and we came to an understanding."

Jeff smiled at his earnest young astronaut son.

"I'm sure of it, John… but I'm not just talking about _you._ Sometimes, your brother, Virgil, has conflicts with Scott's choices, and we can't have that. Not in this organization. There's one commander, and Scott is it. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir. I understand."

"Good. Make certain the others do, too. Including… _especially_ … Tanusha. I've never been very good at controlling that girl… generally, she's always gotten whatever she wants, So I'm counting on you to keep her in check, John. She listens to you."

Yeah. Great. Hold back the tide, Tracy. It'll do whatever you say, because you're such a slick talker.

"I'll, um… I'll try, Sir. Was there anything else?"

Because he really, seriously hoped not. Kayo and Virgil were going to be trouble, enough. _Naturally,_ his dad wasn't finished.

"Actually, Son, there _is_ one more thing."

Jeff leaned back in his seat, steepled his fingers, and turned a long, steady regard at John, over the top of them. Which was (oh, sh*t) his _'You're in trouble, young man,'_ pose.

"About what happened in Mongolia, with the Hood."

John broke eye-contact, something his father effing _hated._ Controlling his still-ragged breathing with a major effort, he said,

"I was wrong to do that, Sir. I'm sorry. It won't happen, again."

"It _can't_ happen again, Son. We're not the police. We don't administer justice, no matter how much the sonuvabitch deserves it. Believe me, John… I understand how angry you were. I was… I _am,_ too. But we must be better than that. We must be above reproach, _all_ the time, in _every way._ We save lives, we don't take them, no matter what our feelings demand. This is something that has got to be dealt with."

Feeling about two inches tall, John said quietly,

"Yes, Sir. I'll keep it in check from now on, I promise."

Jeff's posture shifted. His hands dropped back down to the armrests.

"I know you will, John… because you're my son, you're a Tracy, and because you've always made me very proud."

Startled, the younger man looked up, meeting his father's gaze, once more.

"I… Thank you, Sir. And… when do you want me to tell the others about your recall?"

Jeff ran a hand through his own, thick grey hair.

"Wait a little, please. I want time to say my goodbyes in my own way, to each of them, and I don't want lots of emotion. Can I depend on you to keep it under wraps for awhile, John?"

"I won't say anything until instructed to do so, Sir."

Jeff smiled.

"Good, good," he enthused, rising from the chair to give his son's shoulder a pat. "I know I can count on you, John. Hold the fort, back your brother's play, and, most of all… improve on your best. No compromise, no excuses, no failures. Clear?"

"Clear, Sir."

"Good job. See you this afternoon in the kitchen, at 1200 hours."

John stood up as his father left, listening as the man's footsteps receded along the hallway, and then began to rattle up the tall metal staircase. After a moment or two, he turned toward a darkened side room and said,

"How much of that did you hear?"

Kayo slipped from the shadows, an oddly tender expression on her face. The girl came forward and surprised her brother with an embrace.

"I'm sorry, John," she said to him. "I'll try not to be so much trouble, from now on. I'll try to be more of a 'team player'."

John hugged her back, slightly confused by how much he seemed to need contact, now. Then, after noticing a certain warm, sharp smell,

"Have you been _drinking_?" he asked. Kayo tipped her face up, then shrugged at him.

"Only on the job, I promise. Had to loosen her up, after all. I didn't _like_ it, or anything… much. Besides, _you_ drink."

"Great. I'm an official bad influence."

Clearing his throat, he broke the embrace, stepped away and said,

"What did you find out?"

Kayo considered, inside herself. Talking about Scott and Penny was fine, she decided, but the other matter… World Gov's hunt for the truth about what had happened to the Hood… Well, she'd handle it herself, with Penelope's help. Because otherwise, if John went to prison, she'd just have to break him out, and then they'd _both_ be in trouble.

"They're fine, again. Counseled Penny, got her to give our boy a second chance. Seems that he popped her an unexpected "I love you". She was totally blindsided, and didn't know how to react. Dumb stuff, easy fix. You? What's going on with Buddy and Ellie, out in the land of make-believe science, Brother-mine?"

John gave her one of those half-smiles that made him look just like dad.

"Well, their science might be fake, but their problem sure isn't. They were right in the middle of a broadcast on Titan, when a bright flash blinded the camera, and all transmission ceased. No further communication, no transponder signal… nothing. All systems apparently dead, and that's a real issue, on Titan. It's, um… _chilly_ , out there. And poisonous. And there's a crap-load of radiation, from Saturn."

"So… they need major help, right now," Kayo mused.

"Pretty much, yeah. Although… as long as it's been since the problem occurred…" Well, he didn't like to say it out loud, but the mission might turn out to be corpse recovery, rather than a rescue.

Kayo was developing an idea; a way to keep her difficult brother out of the World Council's reach, while she and Penny made a few _adjustments._

"Right. Clear as crystal, then. You're our 'hostile environments' lad, aren't you? Got a fancy space suit, and everything. So, let's pack you off with Alan and Captain Taylor to rescue some frozen-arsed explorers, and then you three can save the day in spectacular fashion; slam, bam, everyone's happy. I hear Saturn is lovely, this time of year, Star-boy."

John grunted. He'd been hoping to get back upstairs, soon, but not _that_ far up. Still…

"Not a bad plan, but let Scott be the one to propose it. Dad thinks…"

"That we ignore him, and do as we like. I know. Rubbish. We listen at _least_ half the time. I know for a _fact."_

The astronaut smiled, seeming a little distracted.

"Only thing is… what made that flash? I'm reviewing the telemetry, right now, and I'm seeing nothing wrong with their craft or equipment, prior to the breakdown. Almost looks like…"

"Like what?" Kayo asked him, drawing nearer.

"Well… like an attack, of some kind, but… all the way out there on Titan? Never mind, just being stupid. In my own defense, the way things have been going, lately, a _cabbage_ would experience paranoid delusions. No, their batteries shorted out, and they're sitting up there around an emergency heater, waiting for rescue. End of story."

Then, glancing down at his wrist comm, John snapped,

" _Sh*t._ Almost 1200. Better get back to the kitchen before we announce this situation, or we'll find ourselves flying a desk."

Kayo smiled sweetly, pivoted, and then called in her best, sing-song voice,

"Race you!" before taking off like a gazelle, John in hot pursuit. "Last one there eats Alan's spaghetti!"


	3. Chapter 3

Having a blast! Everyone knows I don't own the characters... but they sure are fun to have around. Thanks for reading and/or reviewing. You're the best!

 **3**

 _Tracy Island, at the ring-_

"Ignore me."

That's what their father had said to them all, as Scott convened the pre-flight mission briefing.

"I'm not even here."

Then, he'd gone over to lean against the portrait wall, arms folded on his broad chest, expression carefully neutral. Only, he was about as easy to ignore as an iceberg in shipping channels. It was like they'd begun a board meeting, with dry, lifeless Power Point, and everything, when a fully grown male lion had strolled into the room, leapt onto the table, had himself a casual wash, then stretched out full length atop papers and water cups; musky smell, half-lidded golden eyes, big, twitchy paws, and all. Colonel Tracy was nearly that easy to ignore.

Nevertheless, quite manfully, Scott tried. He was feeling rather good, actually, because he'd straightened things out with Penelope (Poor little thing had been overwhelmed by his rushed declaration, and so she'd panicked. Understandable, he supposed.) Also, because the house was back, their launch bays intact, and everything ready to go. Brains had even shown up, blinking sleepily and sniffing at all the unfamiliar smells coming from their kitchen. He looked like h*ll, but _seemed_ more or less functional.

Alan, having scored that early lesson, had proceeded to make a big pot of "spaghetti bologna-aise", or something like that. There was cautious interest from the gathered crew, which included (for the last time in awhile) O'Bannon, Penny, Kraft and Lee Taylor. As Scott conducted the preflight, Alan went back and forth from kitchen to ring, ferrying big, sloppy plates of pasta with red sauce and sprinkled cheese.

Anyhow, it _smelt_ okay… although Scott couldn't spot the bologna. Refused to conduct a meeting with his mouth full, or with sauce on his chin, either, so tasting the mess had to wait. Turning to face his tall, red-blond brother, Scott set his plate aside and said,

"There's a situation, John?"

The astronaut stepped away from Captain O'Bannon, and nodded.

"Looks like it. Here's the video feed, right up to the point where everything cuts out."

With a gesture, he summoned the ring's data globe, and pulled up the raw footage of Buddy and Ellie's last known mission. There was a brief flicker, and then they saw dense, smoggy, tan-orange air, a crunchy looking surface pebbled with greyish-brown stones, and a smiling, one-legged man in a specially-altered space suit.

He sprang into view from left of center, as a woman's cheerful voice called out,

"Annnd… _Action!"_

"Here, on this frigid and turbulent moon, far from the warmth and safety of Earth… (Cheers, Mum, Happy Birthday!) ... Me and the lovely missus have traveled a _million miles_ in search of the elusive Titanean mud worm! Myth? Legend? Alien plot? Or _truth?_ I'm your host, Buddy Pendergast, and today, I'll risk my life to find out, and then bring the little bugger back alive! Right, El?"

"Adventure awaits, Buddy!"

"Abso- blinkin' -lutely, Love of my Life! And now, the money shot!"

The grinning adventurer panned his gloved hand sideways and up, while springing into the air like an Olympic athlete. The camera tracked his flight, and then Saturn came into view; vast, ringed, serene and beautiful, taking up fully half of the sky. Tumbling through the air, Buddy arced across the enormous, yellow-brown gas giant and struck a dramatic pose.

"This is _Into the Unknown, with Buddy and Ellie,_ and…"

A sudden, incredibly intense flash of light, and burst of static, ended the transmission. Gordon had been standing close to the holo, completely transfixed. Now, he pivoted to face John.

"What happened?!" he demanded. "Where's the rest?!"

Gordon was not just a fan of the show, but an occasional contributor, and he had what seemed like a second job pulling those two bold explorers out of trouble.

"Are they all right?"

"That's what we're trying to find out, Gordon," Scott soothed, adding, "John, any further contact?"

The astronaut shook his head, no.

"I've tried every channel, including their normal emergency beacon frequencies, but I'm getting nothing at all from spacecraft, equipment, _or_ personnel. It's like they've just vanished. Even broke down and called their production company. Yeah. That was useful. I can only listen to so much 'on-hold' elevator music, Scott."

"Right… So, how old is that transmission?" Asked their handsome commander, making every effort not to look over at dad.

Jeff shifted position, slightly, and everyone froze for an instant; as though that lion on the boardroom table had just yawned, exposing its three-inch fangs and cavernous maw, and blasting damp, meaty breath in everyone's faces.

Then Grandma snorted impatiently and said,

"Jeffrey, these kids can't do a dang thing with you standing there, judging 'em! Go take a walk on the beach, or something! Go on, _get!"_

"But…"

 _"Now,_ Boy!"

Looking rather crestfallen, Jeff mumbled,

"Yes, Ma," and wandered off.

 _Hallelujah._ Scott felt a weight lift. Felt finally able to breathe. Carefully acting as though not a thing had just happened, he repeated,

"The transmission. How old?"

John looked grim.

"Eight days, seven hours, forty-three minutes, ten seconds from… _mark."_

It was Virgil who asked the tough question, the expression in his brown eyes unusually serious.

"Could they survive for that long, with no help and busted-ass equipment?"

Gordon rounded on his muscular older brother, seeming almost ready to cry.

"Shut up!" he snapped. "They're _fine._ Buddy and Ellie have gotten through lots worse! We're going. We've _got_ to go!" turning back to face the astronaut, he said, "John, tell them there's a chance! Tell them!"

Truthfully? He'd have given better odds to a butterfly being sucked into Thunderbird 1's scramjet… but he didn't like to admit it. Not when there was even the slightest possibility of rescue.

"There's a chance," he said, getting just about tackled by Gordon, whose violent hug knocked him back several feet. _"Oof_ … stop. Get off. Had my full quota of family bonding, for the day. If we're going to do this, though, Scott, it's going to have to be fast, and… I know it sounds stupid, but…"

John hesitated, looking around at all of those alert, expectant faces. Then Grandma came over to stand before him, saying,

"Ain't nuthin' stupid, John Matthew. I've seen dumb idears save lives more times than you can shake a stick at. What else you need, besides horsepower?"

"Um… shielding. Extra tight blast shielding. That flash really bothers me. Plus, whatever we can field in the way of countermeasures."

Scott frowned.

"You mean… _weapons_ , John?"

Yes, actually, although the reason why, was half-formed and difficult to express.

"Just, um… something to defend ourselves with, Scott. That's been an issue, lately."

"Yeah. You're telling _me."_ Their stern, blue-eyed commander nodded. "Okay, Little Brother. It's a go. We'll need to send…"

Gordon, mutely, had placed a sudden hand on the pilot's arm, just looking at him. But Scott shook his head, no.

"This isn't your mission, Gords. You _know_ that. Thunderbird 3 will be out there for weeks. In the meantime, we've got to have a team on Earth, able to respond to land, air _and_ sea rescues. That's me, Virgil, Kayo, Brains… and you. I'm sending Alan and John, plus… if you've got another mission left in you, Sir… Uncle Lee."

"Sure thing, Spence…" The retired astronaut looked fondly down at Grandma Tracy, whom he'd been sitting beside. "So long as this lovely young lady can spare me, that is. Whadaya say, Beth? Have I got your kitchen pass?"

Grandma Tracy elbowed her swain in the ribs, _hard,_ snarling,

"Shut up, you old fool! You're ridiculous!"

Had a pin dropped, it would have resounded like artillery fire. Had a virus _sneezed_ , it would have rocked the room. But Lee Taylor's seamed face was wreathed in smile wrinkles, and his blue-grey eyes were alight, as he gazed at her stoic face and tightly crossed arms. It was love. Old guy love.

Mentally grabbing for that extra-large bucket of brain-bleach, Scott gathered himself and forged onward.

"Right, then… um, Alan, John and, um… Captain Taylor will…"

 _"And_ me," said Gordon, stepping forward with clenched fists. "I'm going, too."

Only, Scott wouldn't meet his demanding stare, so Gordon turned once again to John. Coming to stand directly in front of the tall, silent astronaut, he whispered,

"John… _please._ They're my friends!"

But all John could think of was their father's command: _Back your brother's play._ Shifting his stance just a bit, he started to speak. Then Kayo sashayed on up, deliberately casual.

 _"I_ could handle water rescues in Thunderbird 4, if Gordon's willing to give me the five-minute how-to. And _I'm_ worth any three of you boys. Isn't that right, John?" Her tone might have been playful, but her stare said: _Whose side are you on, Brother-mine, Dad's… or ours?_

Scott was clearly beginning to waver; tipping like a downed plane at the edge of a cliff. Then, Uncle Lee weighed in.

"H*ll, yeah! Three Tracys are better than two, any day! The more, the merrier, right, Jim? Er… Jason. Son, you need to visit more often! That way, I wouldn't be all the time forgettin' your d*mn name!"

That was… unanswerable, so John just smiled and said,

"Yes, Sir, you're right. I vote he goes along, Scott. Conditions are going to be harsh up there, and Gordon has plenty of experience with air tanks and pressure suits."

There was a certain tension in the room; a certain muscle-bunching from Virgil, darting eyes and pent breath from Alan, watchful silence from Grandma.

"Well…" Scott considered. "We've got dad here, too. He can fly missions, just like the rest of us, so… Fine. Gordon, you're in. Just follow Captain Taylor's lead. He's in charge." That way, there wouldn't be any precedence friction between the two pilots of Thunderbird 3; current and former.

Gordon whooped aloud. Then he leapt in the air like a swordfish, doubled, came down on both hands, and completed a full back-handspring; something he normally did only off clifftops or diving-boards, with plenty of water, below. The look of gratitude that he shot Kayo was indescribable.

Seizing his sister's arm, he began dragging her out of the ring, toward Thunderbird 4's launch bay access port. In the meantime, Scott had turned to face bleary, half-conscious Brains, who was about to face-plant in his coffee mug.

"Brains… _Brains!_ Wake up. Need you at a hundred-and-ten percent right now, Buddy. Thunderbird 3 needs long-mission prep, and speed upgrades. We've got a rescue to run, from a million miles away."

"Actually, it's ten AUs to Saturn," John corrected drily. "So, make it nine-hundred-thirty million, give or take. We'll be gone a while."

His gaze shifted, then, to O'Bannon, standing nearby in one of his IR shirts and a pair of cut-offs, her hair back in some sort of complex braid-thing. _Not_ for permission. For acceptance… understanding.

Her grey eyes were very wide; her face still, calm and pale. Then, silently, she mouthed,

 _'Go be a hero, Tracy. That's your job.'_

Beside her, Emma gave the captain a nudge, saying,

"You gonna be okay, Ree?"

"Yeah. Sure. Needed to get out and quit wasting time over here, anyhow."

"You and me, both," Kraft agreed, looking across the ring at Virgil. "It's just… hard, you know? But the GDF wants me and Union Jack out there cruising, again, so…"

"We gotta do what we gotta do," O'Bannon concluded. "Just like _them."_ Curling both hands into loose fists, she pounded them lightly against her lower abdomen and said, "Ovaries: grow a pair!" Then she stopped talking, because John had come over. Emma muttered something about refilling her "think-juice", and shot off to join Virgil.

John took Ridley's hands, made eye-contact, and said,

"I'll be back. Not _soon,_ but I'll be back." Would have done some quick calculations, for her, but O'Bannon wasn't wearing her _'I love math'_ face, so maybe better not…

Ridley squeezed his hands.

"Promise me," she said, "That whatever stupid, brave, d*mn-fool idea pops into your head at that one, critical juncture… you'll stop, and request team input. _Promise me,_ Tracy."

Pulling her into his arms, he said,

"I promise."

Meanwhile, down in the launch-bay access tunnel, Gordon had seized Kayo's shoulders and given her a hard, happy shake.

"Thank you, Kay! Thank you _so much!"_

He kissed her forehead, both cheeks, chin and then the tip of her nose. Their old "everywhere kiss". Kayo, delighted, dipped forward and blew a soft raspberry against his mouth.

"Here for you, Aqua-lad!" And then, in the back of her mind, she thought: _Nope. Not in a million years, Penny. Never happen._

Gordon was already springing away, hauling at her hand to propel his sister down the tunnel.

"Let's go, Woman! You're about to become the world's second-best pilot of the one and only Water Bird!"

 _"Second_ best?" Kayo scoffed. "Watch my dust, Brother-boy! Thunderbird 4's finally getting a _real_ pilot!"

"Heh!" Gordon bumped against her as they ran for the wet-dock. "Just _don't_ put up curtains and wallpaper!"

At almost the same time, meanwhile, Alan looked around at all of those cold, congealing plates, and said,

"Hey… did you guys like my spaghetti?"

Virgil had taken a few bites… but then, he _would_. Leaning over to talk to Emma, he muttered,

"I've tasted pretty much the same thing from a can."

"Maybe," she hissed back, "If it was seriously past the 'use-by' date. Better than your Grandma's, though." Then, " _Smile!_ He's looking this way!"

Virgil set his plate down, kissed Emma, then walked up to the slightly deflated cook, and said,

"On the bright side, Sprout, you're a h*ll of an astronaut. Now, go suit up. You've got a mission to fly."

Alan grinned.

"Whoo-hoo! Road trip!" he shouted, high-fiving Virgil before sprinting off for his special couch.

Less than thirty minutes later, Thunderbird 3 shot from her silo, roaring like a crimson, F-5 tornado. Destination, Titan.


	4. Chapter 4

Bit late, but it's been a heck of a week at sea! Thanks for reading.

 **4**

 _Titan, by the frosty shores of Lake Endurance-_

The escape pod had not been intended for more than one person… and certainly not for a stay of nearly two weeks. Meant to carry an ejecting passenger well clear of a stricken space craft, the pod's engine was supposed to burn for twenty minutes, while its transponder called for help on all available emergency frequencies. Like everything else, however, the pod had failed. Its tiny engine had managed no more than a spurt when the rest of Explorer-1 disintegrated, carrying it about a mile and a half away from Buddy and Ellie; close to the shore of a dark, slowly rippling methane lake.

Why and how their spaceship had exploded, the pair had no idea. When, or even _if_ help would arrive, they had no way to tell. Their helmet comms worked, but those small transmitters were extremely short-range, working across no more than a hundred meters, or so. They could not call for help. Had not even a really bright torch left with which to flash code.

But Buddy refused to despair. Didn't know how to, actually. If losing a leg hadn't slowed him down, no ruddy exploding spaceship was going to do it; not as long as he had Ellie to look after. So, once the dust, debris and jetting gasses had settled… once they'd patched Ellie's torn glove… Buddy had gathered a few supplies and looked about them for shelter.

Titan was an eerie little world, with a close horizon and yellowish skies that rained methane. Saturn hung just overhead, massive and ringed; seeming close enough, almost, to touch. The ground underfoot consisted of water-ice pebbles, hard and solid as granite, on Earth. The wind didn't blow, so much as _pour,_ more like a strong current than a breeze. A yellow-brown, smoggy, perpetual half-light glowered around them, too diffuse to cast shadows.

Hand in hand, they'd skirted the shore of that slick, oily-dark lake, boots crunching on icy sand. Buddy's goal was the barely-glimpsed escape pod, which they could just make out, on what looked like a dry river bed. He'd kept up a constant stream of energetic commentary, imagining their trek as a full-length adventure film; casting it, and staging scenes aloud. Ellie had smiled and played along, for hadn't they always come through? Wouldn't they ever?

The pod had been intact, thank God, but half buried in icy beach sand and methane-muck. They'd had to dig it free and push the thing upright, before working the hatch open and (at last) getting inside to shelter. That had been quite some time ago. Now, with the air scrubbers straining, and food running short, Buddy was considering another field trip to hunt for scattered supplies.

He sat on the cramped little pod's lone seat, with Ellie on his lap, peering out their one grimy port. Reaching up, Buddy pushed back his red knit cap, and then scratched at his dark brown hair.

"Well, light of my life," he said, interrupting a game of _'what would you eat right now, if you could have anything you wanted, at all?'_ "Looks like y'r chocolate biscuits an' my marmite aren't likely t' just stroll by and knock us up. Might have a bit of a walkabout, Luv, and see what's lyin' about. You think?"

Ellie nodded, her blonde hair framing a pert, pretty, blue-eyed face.

"Right as usual, Buddy. I'm about to start samplin' the upholstery. Them survival sticks keep you goin', but they don't satisfy, see?"

"Oh, perfectly expressed, Yin to my Yang! Let me get that down f'r the script writers… Crikey! What a blockbuster we'll have, eh, Ellie?"

"Right-o, bud. Shall I bring the camera, then?" she was already reaching for her helmet, it having never occurred to her to wait within, while her husband faced danger alone.

"Spot-on, El! We can get a few shots f'r the storyboards… Saturn, the search for supplies, that lakeshore… real hardships of survival stuff. Our public 'll eat it right up!"

Beaming at each other, Buddy and Ellie slapped palms, and then embraced. Anything was a lark, when faced together; even shipwreck on Titan.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Leaving Tracy Island, near sunset-_

The island, with its lushly-green volcano and beautiful house, banked down and away beneath them, soon lost in the glow of tropical sunlight on water. Almost nobody noticed.

Lady Penelope had bidden a long, private farewell to Scott; leaving them both warm, mussed, slightly breathless and smiling. Now, seated with Kayo in the back of FAB-1, Penny found her thoughts drifting back to her recent, erm… 'supply room encounter'. Not even Bertie could keep her attention for long. Not after _that._

Kayo was sunk in thoughts of her own, gazing out the window as Parker guided them into the air and across the vast ocean, headed for London. The trip would be quick. It _had_ to be, for she was needed, back home… but Penelope meant to bring one sort of pressure to bear upon the World Council, while Kayo sniffed about for another. She was already beginning to feel that pleasurable, pre-hunt tension coursing through her body like strong alcohol.

See, the way Kayo figured things, with her uncle in custody, his organization and contacts would surely be in chaos. Vulnerable. A suitably bright and energetic young lass could score vital information in a situation like this one… information which the World Council might even consider worth dropping their 'excessive force' investigation for.

Absently, the girl patted Sherbert, who was disgruntled enough with Penelope to seek attention, elsewhere. Sighing, he thumped his fat little body down upon Kayo's lap, and took what he could get.

Parker kept silent, after announcing their itinerary and ETA. He had long ago mastered the servant's art of being just as much present as required. He would remain as unobtrusive as the autopilot, unless Lady Penelope spoke, or… as Master John would put it… a 'situation' developed. Otherwise, well… it looked like being a most uneventful, and very quiet, flight home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere, quite far away, underground-_

There was a very ancient homo-typical expression: _a new broom sweeps clean._ Not that he'd have admitted studying the doings of inferiors… but the sentiment suited his mood. Two Kyranos had fought their way to the head of the family, recently. Both had fallen; the one to internal strife, the other to his own bloated pride and blind savagery. One dead, the other arrested. _He_ intended to fare better, to lay more cautious groundwork.

Briefly, he considered the particulars. Sentinel had been purchased back from a thief; one of the Hood's former lackeys. It had been successfully tested at full power. Now, it wanted recharging, for their first real target had been very far off, indeed. Only, one did not simply plug such a weapon into the nearest wall socket, or even hijack the output of a mere hydroelectric dam. Sentinel required much more… And Nikorr Kyrano knew just where to find it. But carefully, without rousing the ire of International Rescue. Not until they were a lot farther split, at least.

And that was a particularly galling, inherited problem. Another old-world human expression, from before the divide, occurred to him: _Don't start nuthin', won't be nuthin'._ His predecessor, disgusted by the degraded remains of the Tracy bloodline, incensed that one of their own should choose to den with that pack of mongrels, had pushed confrontation, and lost.

But… perhaps it was possible to avoid open conflict? To make his proposed power drain seem accidental? Nikorr tapped his fingers in rapid succession against the pads of both thumbs; a habit, while calculating.

Yes, they were an offense, defending what they should have been strong enough to prey upon… but not necessarily enemies. Not unless _he_ chose to make them so. As for the girl, this 'Kayo'… time would tell. With her black hair and clear green eyes, she was definitely a Kyrano, only debased. Blunted and 'tamed'. A problem for later, Nikorr decided. He had more important things to attend to, at the moment.

Turning very slightly toward a waiting subordinate, he half spoke/ half sent,

"Proceed with the operation. Cause as little loss of life and structural damage as possible. _This_ time."

The aide bowed low, murmured,

"At your will, Kyrano," then backed away, bowing again at every third step, until he vanished through the massive steel doors.

In moments, the tall, dark-haired young man was left alone with his thoughts; far down in that underground chamber.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, out in space-_

Gordon Tracy felt very much like a lazily spinning fifth wheel. All sorts of important activity was going on around him, but with _three_ astronauts aboard ship, the young athlete had nothing much to do besides try to stay out of the way. Well, that, and practice getting from point A to point B without getting stranded in mid-cabin, or bowling right into the others.

He didn't know how to slingshot around the Sun for a gravity boost, or how to deploy the solar sails… although Alan had offered to teach him. And long-range navigation with polar coordinates and a distant, moving target had never been his thing; John and Uncle Lee ate that stuff for breakfast, with sprinkles on top. Online college courses only took so much time… he'd earn his marine engineering degree, soon… and his webpage had already been updated five times, his fan mail answered (a never-ending task, but one he quite enjoyed).

Other than Virgil, who put out a webtoon called "Thunder Bros" under the nickname Vic Taylor, Gordon had the biggest online presence, and the most followers. But even satisfying his many fans with shots of himself in space couldn't occupy all of that unwanted free time. Neither could binge-watching the interrupted new season of _Into the Unknown, with Buddy and Ellie._

Fortunately, three pilots meant that was one was always off duty. Sort of critical on very long flights. And when that off-guy was _John…_ Well, Gordon hadn't packed a volleyball for nothing. Had to time it right, though, as he soon discovered.

He'd shot into the cargo hold a day after launch, as they were approaching the Sun. John was drifting there in mid-hold, barely illuminated by flickering LEDs and dim yellow bulkhead lamps.

Gordon zipped on over, raising his forearms to be caught, as Alan had shown him. Surprisingly, John did not look overjoyed to see him, even with the volleyball towed along in its net bag, behind.

"Hey, Bro!" the swimmer called cheerfully. "What are you doing in here, all alone?"

John put both hands out to catch Gordon's forearms, partly arresting his brother's fast glide.

"Being alone," he replied, a bit wistfully. Then, "What do you need, Gordon?"

"Just came to say 'hi'… and see what you're up to, Bro."

It was then that Gordon noticed the drifting spark of red light on John's wrist comm.

"That's pretty neat," he said, looking closer. "What'd you do, get an upgrade? Is Brains screwing around with our equipment, again?"

 _"Nein. Ist der Jaeger,"_ John replied.

"Yaeger?" Gordon repeated, having not much skill with non-Basic languages. "Like that old test pilot?"

"Something like that," John shrugged, releasing him with a very slight push. "What's on your mind, Gordon?"

The swimmer grinned, hauling in the net bag and its precious contents.

"Lonely? Bored? Out of sorts? Gordon Tracy, idol of millions, is here to solve all your troubles! In other words, feel like having a game?"

Because, if there was one thing (besides beer) that could alter John's mood in a hurry, it was tossing a ball around. Interested, now, the red-haired astronaut looked around at their somewhat cramped venue.

"Not a great set-up," he said.

"What d'you mean? All we have to do is choose sides, pick goals, and then _you_ prepare to get your ass whipped, Gordon Tracy-style!"

"You think so?" his brother replied, smiling a little. "I'd be more concerned, if you could figure out how to turn _around_ , without yelling for Alan."

"Yelling for…?! Oh, it's on, now, John. You're _so_ dead!"

Didn't quite turn out that way, as zero-G volleyball was a _lot_ more challenging than the beach variety, and John was a pro. But, hey… he had months to get better, and a brand-new goal in life: wipe that satisfied smile off of John's face. _Permanently._

Meanwhile, up in the cockpit, Captain Taylor and Alan were plotting their course.

"Ya fall down in towards the Sun, then use it as a giant slingshot, to whip you 'round and then back out, with a big-ass speed boost," explained the no-longer-quite-so-retired astronaut, his mustache bristling with smiles. "Even though it looks longer on paper, it's a shortcut, Alvin. Y'r dad and me did it lots of times, f'r those _really_ far jaunts, out to the colonies, and such."

"Yes, Sir," Alan agreed. He knew all of this, already, but didn't like to correct dad's best friend. "How long do you figure it'll take us to get there, Uncle Lee?"

Taylor relaxed in the pilot's seat, his arms drifting upward slightly as he stopped consciously controlling them.

"Well, Son, that depends, don't it? We might get lucky and catch a good, fierce CME what's going our way. That'd shave off some weeks, right there." Then, squinting his blue-grey eyes a bit, "This bucket's got radiation shielding, right, Alvin? Coronal Mass Ejections ain't no joke."

"Yes, Sir, Uncle Lee," Alan replied, fighting the urge to grin. "Thunderbird 3 is really well shielded. Otherwise, we'd be floating around out here in a microwave popcorn bag, and that'd be, um… really bad. But, hey… did you try my spaghetti?"

"Yup," Lee nodded, checking the instrument panel again, reflexively. "Ate every d*mn bite."

"What'd you think?" Alan asked, at once hopeful and afraid. "Not too bad, for my first try, huh?"

Taylor's forehead wrinkled in thought. Then, he said,

"Needed more mustard."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Back in Earth's ionosphere, over the Asian continent-_

Drifting elegantly in a long, cyber-linked network, almost in space, the High Altitude Electric Receivers were a thing of beauty. They were shaped like sparking aluminum pyramids, seemingly balanced on their points. Each had a long, glowing plasma antenna directed up into the electromagnetic storm of Earth's mighty ionosphere. These fast-whipping violet antennae captured electrical power and channeled it down to the receivers' main body. There, it was used to generate a powerful microwave beam, which would be directed to each Asian receiving station, in turn.

It was a good system, and mostly quite safe. Never, since the great solar flares of 2047, had the network failed to deliver clean, cheap energy. Nearly all of Asia depended for power on those high-drifting microwave generators.

Now, though, something went wrong. Instead of sending their power to the Asian sub-stations, the receivers all concentrated their beams to a point in midair, over the Indian Ocean. There, it just… vanished, as though passing through some sort of world-gate, to somewhere else. Not before frying the avionics right out of a luxury passenger balloon, though, and robbing Asia of power. Alarms blared. Distress calls resounded. Then,

"International R- Rescue," Brains called, from his seat at the comm desk, "W- We have a situation!"

Down in their well-stocked game room, Scott Tracy stood upright, turning away from what would have been the ultimate, game-winning snooker shot. Setting his cue aside, the pilot faced his opponent and said,

"Well, Sir… you up for a mission?"

Jeff Tracy gave his own cue-stick an elegant twirl, smiling broadly.

"Anything to get out of losing, eh, Son…? Well… I guess I can let you slide, this once. We'll call it a draw. And, h*ll, yeah, I'm up for it. Let's go make a difference, Scott!"


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for reading and reviewing, Bow Echo and Elsa Jay! :)

 **5**

 _Earlier, above Tracy Island-_

She'd gotten another ride in his Bird, because Virgil ferried her back out to Union Jack, in style. Both were in uniform, both fighting to contain their emotions. And the big cargo pilot learnt that day how to fly with his left knee and one hand, while clasping _her_ hand, with his other. Bit shaky on turns, but they got there.

"We'll be cruising the local waters, mostly," Lieutenant Kraft told him. "Making the usual round between Australia, New Zealand, Antarctica, and _here._ So…"

"You'll be back, fairly soon," Virgil finished for her; something he'd started to do, lately.

"Reasonably soon," Emma nodded; once more the picture of squared-away naval perfection in her dress whites and sleek up- do. "Unless something comes up…"

"Which it won't, or else I'll be right there to help you straighten things out."

"Not that we'll _need_ any help."

"No," Virgil agreed solemnly, squeezing her hand. "Of course not."

As they banked low over Union Jack, Kraft saw her crew lined up on the deck in their military best; some in whites, some in formal Mess Dress uniforms… all to welcome her back. Gazing down fondly, she smiled.

"It's home, you know," she said, unstrapping to stand, somehow without releasing her young man's hand.

"I know that, Emma… but so's _this_ … if you want it to be."

He'd stood up, too, and now pulled her in close for a long, tender kiss. When it ended, he looked past the top of her head through his view screen, and said,

"Too bad Union Jack doesn't have a landing pad. I could visit you, then."

"Yeah," she mused, frowning a little. "Although it would take one h*ll of a pad to handle Thunderbird 2. That's one big… Oh, _stop it!_ "

Because a slow smile had begun to creep over Virgil's handsome face. He cocked an eyebrow and nodded, saying,

"You better believe it, Sweet-pea. Extra-large heavy lifter, at your service!"

"Really, guy? _Really?!"_ she mock-snapped, giving him her frostiest glare and knife-hand. "You went there?"

"Heh. Every chance I get, woman!" Which he punctuated by slapping her rear. That led to more kissing, and could have gotten serious, but Kraft broke away.

"My crew are still at attention, down there," she sighed. "They're going to be wondering what's going on."

"Oh, I don't think anyone's _wondering,"_ he argued, triggering the forward boarding ramp. "But, yeah… it's hot out there, so…"

"Time to go," she finished for Virgil.

He walked her to the end of the ramp, where she was handed down by the perpetually glowering Corporal Rodriguez. The bosun's whistle sounded _'commander on deck'_ , and the entire crew saluted as one. Kraft returned the salute, then said,

"At ease!"

…at which they all assumed parade rest (except for the Marines, who just got a little less rigid and homicidal). Turning to face Virgil, Kraft lifted a hand in farewell. The big, dark-eyed pilot waved back, but then kissed his fingers and threw the kiss at her. Emma caught it in midair, then pressed his kiss to her heart, not caring who saw. Then the ramp re-ascended, and Virgil was gone.

Thunderbird 2 escorted them out of the bay, shadowing Union Jack for a full ten nautical miles before turning back. Kraft stood at the taffrail and watched him go, struggling to conceal her emotions. Managed better than the female sailors, anyhow; most of whom were openly pining for Gordon.

"Oh, suck it up," she told them. "Dial 1-800- waaaaah. You'll have your communal boyfriend back before you know it… and if I catch _anyone_ off this vessel with Gordon Tracy, it's a Captain's Mast, and three weeks' KP!"

At which she thought to herself: _'hypocrite!'_

Then Lieutenant Kraft strode away to the bridge, shoulders back and heart safely stowed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, after the mission alert, a few hours later-_

While Jeff put on a clean uniform, and climbed aboard from the gantry, Scott rode up in his elevator, getting suited and booted on the way. His heart raced as the high walkway extended, conducting him over a deadly fall to the tall, silver rocket plane; his second-best reason for living. The canopy opened, and then the pilot's seat deployed to meet him. Scott sat down and strapped in. Seconds later, he'd been drawn aboard. Once his seat locked itself down, Thunderbird 1 began sliding along her track, while overhead, the pool withdrew to its launch housing. When the tractor-ride ended, her clamps retracted, and the rocket plane's engines howled to wild, rabid life. Scott hauled back on the stick, she sprang from her lair like a dragon, and then they were off. He had to smile as his father called from the back,

"Thunderbird 1 is go!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Over the Indian Ocean, losing altitude, fast-_

As the sleek balloon nose-dived, her captain growled into his comm, over wind-noise and engine roar,

"Mayday, mayday… this is World Air Ship Triumphant, declaring emergency! We have lost avionics, and we're trapped in a dive! Repeat, Mayday, Mayday… This is World Air Ship Triumphant, declaring emergency! Is anyone in range to assist?! Please respond!"

The sharply-tilted bridge was nearly deserted, for he'd ordered his crew back to the passenger cabins to reassure their guests. Only a skeleton team was present; the engineer and first officer. They were up to their elbows in the airship's miles of control wiring, fighting to bring her back on line. No joy so far, though.

Captain Mercer was about to repeat his emergency call, when a sudden shadow fell over the bridge from above, and a voice from the comm said,

"Triumphant, this is International Rescue, from Thunderbird 1. I'm preparing to attach a line. You'll feel a sharp bump, and then I'll try pulling you out of that dive. Sound good to you?"

The stout, grey-bearded captain broke into a wide, relived grin.

"Captain Mercer, here… and that's the best news I've had all day, Thunderbird 1! Proceed as outlined. We'll brace."

Then, turning to pick up his intra-ship comm caster, he called out,

"Attention all hands, and passengers… this is the captain, speaking. All guests and personnel to crash positions. We are about to come under tow, and there may be some turbulence. Repeat, all aboard ship to their crash positions, at once!"

Mostly, they complied. A few rushed to the big, ornate picture windows, trying for selfies with Thunderbird 1 in the background. One simply barricaded himself in his luxury cabin, creating a scene. Francois Le Maire, it was. He refused to leave the Presidential Suite, or be strapped down into a crash couch. Instead, he locked up the poor, hapless stewards who'd been sent to retrieve him and Madame Le Maire.

Outside, meanwhile, Scott Tracy swooped close in Thunderbird 1. The big, fancy airship was clearly in trouble, her nose nearly thirty degrees down, heading straight for the roiling waters, below. At that speed, she wouldn't splash down, she'd disintegrate, with four hundred people on board.

"Gonna try grappling, Dad," Scott told his father, who rode in the seat just behind his.

"Not much there to grab onto, Scott," Jeff replied. "That bag is metalized, but if you pull up too hard, you're likely to rip it."

"Which will let all the helium out. _Crap._ Right, then… what about that access walkway?" For there was a railed catwalk running the length of the airship, from bow to stern.

"I don't know, Son… depends on what it's attached to. Hang on… Brains?!"

"Y- Yes, Mr. Tracy!" The engineer's holo appeared at once, with Virgil partly visible, behind him. "How c- can I help?"

"Run up the specs on a… an Empress-class airship: Triumphant. Give me its hull and fuselage structure, highlighting the strongest, most ferromagnetic spots on the…"

"Done, M- Mr. Tracy. Uploading specs, n- now!"

And, all at once, Triumphant was there in the cockpit with Scott and Jeff, flayed to reveal her internals. They spotted the ideal attachment site, together. Inputting targeting data with one hand, Scott lined up his firing sights with the other.

"Steady…" his father murmured, having taken over control of the Bird from seat two. "Gotta hit her just right, or your grapple will bounce."

Scott nodded, not taking his eyes from the firing sights, not saying a word. The twin glowing circles danced in his viewscreen display, bright red until at last they aligned. Then they turned green, and Scott pulled the trigger. A magnetic grapple shot forth like a striking snake, lashing across the distance between Thunderbird 1 and Triumphant, and hitting her main engine support strut. It was an ultralight steel alloy, and very strong, bracing both airbag and walkway. Usually, Scott took a few tries to latch on, but this time (perhaps because his dad was there, looking on) he got it right, the first try. The grapple's mighty electromagnet seized hold with a sharp clang, just about mating to the strut.

"Good lock-on!" Scott exulted. "Pulling up… _now!"_

Taking control back from Jeff, Scott gunned his engines, pulling Thunderbird 1 into a slow, steady climb. Then,

"International Rescue, we need help on board! One of the passengers is refusing to cooperate. He's filming, and he's got a weapon! There are two stewards trapped in the cabin with him!" Mercer sounded tense, but in control. Not used to dealing with violence, though; who was, anymore?

"Dad, can you keep her level, for me?" Scott asked, readying his zip-line shooter. "I'm going across."

"I've got her, Son. Be careful, over there."

Scott gave his grey-haired father a jaunty thumbs-up, then jammed on his helmet and triggered _'cockpit open'._ All at once, the noise level rose to a howl, as cold wind and engine fumes blasted inside. Working swiftly, the pilot fastened one end of his zip-line cable to the seat, then aimed and fired his gun, shooting the cable's other end down at Triumphant. And once again, he got a good lock on the first try.

Attaching his sash harness to the zip-line, Scott kicked free of his seat and swooped downward. Best ride in the park, every time; buffeted by wind and grinning for sheer, thrill-seeking joy. He arrived at the other end with legs slightly bent to absorb some of the shock. Had his jet pack ready to go, too, just in case.

Landing hard on that railed walkway, Scott detached and reeled in the cable. Then he went forward at a crouch, both hands on the railing, fighting his way to the emergency access hatch. Triumphant was still pitched downward, but not quite as much as she had been. The expanding ocean didn't fill up his _entire_ field of view, anymore.

From here, the strain on her fuselage was clear. The giant airbag trembled. Metal screamed. Engines howled as though tearing themselves to bits. For a man who loved aircraft… h*ll, machines in general… these were the signs of a bird in trouble, and it went straight to his heart. Better hurry, Scott decided.

The hatch was already open when he got there. Hands reached up to help him inside, out of that roaring wind.

"Sheila Price, second officer," a young woman introduced herself. She had short, dark hair and a worried smile. Not conventionally pretty… but after Penelope, what did it matter? She wore the white and blue uniform of World Airways, with the pips of a junior officer, and carried a short rubber truncheon. Because, right… _that_ would work.

"Thanks… ensign?" At her nod, Scott went on, saying, "Thank you, Ensign Price. I'm Scott Tracy. Now, who's our man, and where's he holed up?"

"A Mr. Francois Le Maire, in the presidential suite. He's threatening to blast a hole in the hull, if he isn't left alone to complete filming, and he's got Glen and Osborne, in there, along with his wife!"

"Really? _Le Maire?_ What is it, two-for-one on air-head explorers, this week?" Seeing her puzzled expression, Scott shook his head. "Never mind. Get to a crash couch, Ensign; I'll handle our friend. Just point me in the right direction."

Sheila Price nodded, and beckoned him to follow her downward, along the gantry between those, giant, bulging helium sacks. The vibration was more obvious in here, the noise of straining metal, still louder.

"Okay, Dad. I'm in. It's our buddy, Le Maire. Try to keep Triumphant out of the drink for as long as you can. Less speed and altitude equals a better chance for survival, all around. I'll see what I can do to round up Mr. Personality."

"Sounds like a plan, Son. Brains is working on a remote fix for those fried control systems. If he can hack in from over here, Virgil should be able to remote pilot Triumphant."

 _"Should be?"_ they heard Virgil's outraged response, away on Tracy Island. "I can pilot anything you want to throw in the air, Dad, including a d*mn bank vault!"

Up in the cockpit of Thunderbird 1, Jeff grinned.

"I'll take that bet, Son. We'll try it out, first thing, tomorrow. In the meantime, stay sharp and be ready. Comm silence, until your brother reports that he's collared Le Maire."

"Yes, Sir," Virgil grumped, not liking to be so far out of the action. "You guys be careful."

Scott smiled a little, then resumed following Ensign Price. The airship's deck was visibly tilted, making their footing uncertain. Scott's boots could be magnetized, though, and that helped considerably. Once or twice, he caught Price, to keep her from slipping off the airbag's shuddering crawlway.

At last, they reached a hatch over the gondola. It had a keypad access panel, which Scott could have got through in seconds, using his electromagnetic multi-tool. He was polite, though, and waited for Price to remember her access code and then fumble it in. Stress did nothing good for _anyone's_ memory.

The hatch clicked open after a bit, revealing a laddered drop to the blue and gold carpet, below. They slid on down, scarcely touching the ladder. At the bottom, Price caught his eye; pointed one way, then took off in the other. Already, Scott could hear Le Maire's vain, snappish voice.

"Morons! Cretins! I have paid more for my ticket than your pathetic annual salaries, combined! I _shall_ be respected! I shall be allowed to complete my documentary, or I shall purchase your grubby little organization, simply for the pleasure of firing all of you!"

Yep. Definitely, Le Maire. Scott followed that non-stop narrative until he reached the gold-leafed doors to what looked like a huge, private palace. Deciding first to try the friendly approach, he stepped up, cleared his throat, and then knocked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Le Maire, this is Scott Tr…"

Never got to finish the sentence, because Le Maire's dramatic posturing went suddenly bad, and he accidentally opened fire. With a flare gun, of all things. The beautiful doors blew apart. Then the airship nosed sharply downward, flinging them all to the deck. The passage filled with dense smoke and intensely bright shards of magnesium ribbon. Probably, people were screaming. It was hard to tell over the ringing in his ears. Scott got up, just as two men hurtled past, shoving him hard against the bulkhead. He let them go, figuring the fleeing pair for those trapped stewards.

"Wha… going on… there… ott?" he heard, sort of. Didn't have time to respond, because tall, well-dressed Le Maire, flare gun in one hand, camera phone in the other, was gesturing theatrically at the outer bulkhead. Sooner or later, his dramatic nature would get the better of him, and he'd do something stupid. Again. This time, possibly blasting a hole in the hull. But Le Maire wasn't the only one here with an ersatz weapon.

"Now, at the moment of greatest peril, I, Francois Le Maire, will ride down to the raging waters, on my silvery ship of the skies! Unafraid! Undeterred! Ready to defend myself against all who might hinder my glorious passage and fight for survival! And you, lucky viewers, may bask in my courage and steely resolve! You shall see all, as I…"

Right. No more Mr. Good-Rescue. Scott piled in, flung Madeline Le Maire out of the cabin, then fired his zip-line at the flare gun. It locked on and he retracted the cable, ripping the flare away as he tackled the wealthy explorer to the deck. Possibly wrenched the man's arm out of joint, maybe loosened a few teeth, definitely got control of that flare gun. _Naturally_ , Mrs. Le Maire managed to get all of this on camera for the delight of future audiences. Just another day at the office…

Outside, in Thunderbird 1, Jeff was having trouble keeping the airship's nose up. She was just too bulky, had too much momentum to be corrected by one point of contact. Instead of rising, she started to roll and yaw, dragging the struggling rocket plane all over the sky. And still, the Indian Ocean loomed, taking up more of his screen, by the second.

"Brains!" Colonel Tracy demanded, "How are we coming with that hack?!"

 _John_ would have got it by now, he couldn't help thinking. Only, John had gone haring off with Gordon, Alan and Lee, after another pair of foolish explorers, who probably deserved whatever they got.

"G- Got it, Mr. Tracy!" cried Brains, sounding like he'd just given birth. Then,

"Dad, I'm in! She's under control! Give me a second to level her out, and then you can release the grapple."

"FAB, Virgil," Jeff replied, once he could trust his voice, again. "Scott, how's it coming, in there?"

"Um… all clear, Sir. On my way back," said the pilot, trotting along the ringing metal catwalk.

"You rescued the hostages?"

"Yes, Sir… kind of." Actually, they'd rescued themselves, almost trampling him in the process.

"And Le Maire?"

"Remanded to the custody of Captain Mercer, and his charming wife."

Triumphant was nose-up, again, and gaining altitude, fast. He could feel the change in pitch, and hear a healthy new sound to her engines. Too bad he'd done nothing to improve the Tracy family's reputation for peace and cooperation… probably came off like a rampaging cowboy… but flares to the face tended to surprise a guy, and Le Maire had represented a genuine threat.

About five minutes of climbing and running got him back to the outside emergency hatch, which the pilot opened himself, ignoring the keypad. A gale-force wind snatched him, immediately, almost before he could take hold of the outside rail. Much more strongly than before, Scott was battered and whipped against the airship's hull; barely holding on. Too much turbulence now to fire a zip-line, so Scott thought: _'what the h*ll',_ and just let go, allowing that wind to rip him off and away from Triumphant. Next, he cut on his jet pack, feeling the harness catch him, as always, in the crotch. Managed to swoop on up to his Bird without getting sucked into anyone's intake, though. That was a plus.

Once there, he took hold of the pilot's seat by the armrests, then clambered back on and strapped in. The mechanism reactivated, just as soon as its sensors detected his full, resting weight.

Dad was there, unstrapped and reaching, to help pull Scott back aboard.

"Thank you, Sir," said the pilot, rather than bringing up safety, or good sense. "We make a d*mn fine team."

His father beamed, at that, looking sort of touched.

"Well, you did all of the real work, Son. All I did was try to keep Thunderbird 1 on course, and level."

Over the comm, Virgil sighed gustily. His holo image showed him still quite busy flying Triumphant, and his expression spoke volumes. Jeff immediately amended the statement, saying,

 _"Both_ of you came through, today, Boys. I'm very proud of your hard work and dedication."

Down on Tracy Island, Virgil smiled at his father and brother's images, and then, looking off to one side, at Hackenbacker.

"Looks like we did it, Brains. Guess I never realized, before, how much support it takes to run a mission. Thanks for everything you do that we've taken for granted. The Birds don't fly without you."

The engineer gave him a brief smile, but his overall serious look did not change.

"Th- That is, ah… is very kind of y- you to say, Virgil, b- but I believe that the m- mission is not yet complete. Th- This microwave discharge was no accident, according t- to my calculations. W- We must learn what has, ah… has h- happened to the power output of those r- receivers."

Virgil nodded grimly, saying,

"Yeah. That's the million-credit question, isn't it? Who needs that much power, and _why?"_


	6. Chapter 6

Hullo, again! Thanks for reading and reviewing, Bow Echo and Akimakel, your feedback is deeply appreciated.

 **6**

 _Thunderbird 3, hurtling far away from the Earth-_

At least, no one followed him into the airlock, most likely because they worried that he'd space himself, if he didn't get fifteen minutes alone. Not that he would have. Much. Probably.

Just… Thunderbird 3 _looked_ big, until you locked four guys in there, on a very long mission to Titan. Then, things got really cramped, really quickly. That's why what should have been an annoyance… all of those little _'Hey, IR, since you're in the area, could you_?'_ missions… wound up saving his sanity. John became Mr. Planetary Fix-it, solving minor coding and mechanical problems for the low, low price of _'just let me work by myself'._

Venus, for example. As they neared the hellish planet, some three days into their mission, Thunderbird 3 received a call from Ishtar, the second rock's orbital terraforming station. Apparently, they were having problems with a malfunctioning soil conditioner, and wanted someone to, quote, 'pop on down there and have a look at it.'

Since 'down there' lay on the corrosive surface of fricking _Venus_ , this was quite a request. It said a lot about John's state of mind, at that point, that he snapped, "I'll do it!" before the Planetary Director had even stopped talking.

He got a lift to the surface from Ishtar's robot service shuttle, passing through heavy sulfuric acid clouds and a peanut-butter-thick atmosphere to reach the planet. The return to full gravity was rather abrupt, but worth it, just for the silence and solitude. On the bright side, fifty years of terraforming had lowered the temperature from nine-hundred degrees Fahrenheit to a milder six-fifty, well within the tolerance of his environment suit.

The broken soil conditioner was located near the Maxwell Mountains, in Cleopatra Patera, a large impact crater. The shuttle did not take him all the way down to the ground; something about half-melted rock, crushing pressure and corrosive rain, but John didn't mind. More time on his own, after all.

He jumped the last hundred feet, almost swimming through air that rippled with heat and immediately started bleaching his suit. The dark brown rock was still so hot that he left footprints sunk into the stone with every step. Nice.

Outside of Thunderbird 3 for the first time in days, John took a short break to appreciate all of that hostile d*mn scenery. The Sun was not a disk, on Venus; instead, it was a long, curved, searing-orange arc, smeared halfway across the yellow sky. Looking around, he spotted a range of low volcanic hills, and the crater's slumped-looking rim. Sounds were very loud, and very near-sounding, including the eruption of those "thousand volcanoes", which had set up a deep, throbbing roar.

Trying to stand up in that slow, relentless wind was like attempting to back down a bulldozer; it didn't push _fast_ , but it just wouldn't stop. Fortunately, he'd landed upwind of the conditioner, so those breezes were blowing his way. Interesting change of pace and scenery, to say the least. Of course, Eos wasn't happy.

"John," she scolded, projecting herself from Thunderbird 5 to his helmet speaker, in private. "This is extremely reckless behavior on your part. Is your suit's carbon dioxide converter malfunctioning, again? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"None," he responded, smiling a little. "You don't have any." Then, "You worry too much," he scoffed, leaping back into that syrupy air to get another fifty-foot wind shove. "It's a field trip. In and out in twenty minutes. I'll be done before Alan has time to complete an orbit. Bet me."

"Assuming the mechanism is even repairable," she fretted. "This environment is a virtual death-sentence for mechanicals, John."

"Oh, it's _getting_ fixed, Eos. I've got motivation and a tool kit. Besides, the only thing scary on Venus is the weather, and _that_ , we're prepared for. Relax, Beautiful. It's just a matter of safety, about which, I all am."

So, yeah... the suit had never actually been tested on Venus; but you couldn't explore your parameters by staying safely tucked up in bed, could you? And twenty minutes of peaceful alone time was worth any amount of sulfuric hell.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Earlier, Thunderbird 3, in the cockpit-_

Alan Tracy had watched as Venus grew from a beckoning point, to a glimmering lemon-drop, to the baleful gold cat's eye now hogging his view screen. It sure was different, close up. And yet, John had all but ripped a hole in the hull, going down there.

As Ishtar's shuttle pulled away from the sleek, crimson rocket, the boy's normally sunny expression changed to a small, puzzled frown.

"Dang… _that_ was quick. I think he'd have said 'yes', if they asked him to deliver a pizza!" Turning in his seat to face Gordon, who occupied the next chair over, Alan asked,

"Hey… you don't think he's trying to get away from _us_ , do you?"

Gordon stopped working on his undersea dome-stress quiz for a moment, and looked up.

"Who… John? Avoiding _us?"_ The swimmer pondered that one, momentarily. Then, in unison with Alan, he said,

"Naaaw… no way." Adding, "You know John. He gets these wild hairs to run off, all the time. Just the way he's wired. Besides, we're amazing. Who _wouldn't_ want to hang out with us… right, Uncle Lee?"

Captain Taylor had been gamely recalculating speed, fuel use, trajectory and Eigen vectors, adjusting their flight for the unexpected detour. Now, he looked up.

"What's that, Godfrey?"

"I said, _you_ like hanging out with us, don't you, Sir?"

Taylor grunted.

"Wouldn't be here if I didn't, Son. I got the power of the greatest two-letter word in the Basic language: _nope_. Spencer _asked_ me to come along. He ain't ordered nuthin'. Couldn't, if he wanted to. So, yeah… I'm here 'cause I wanta be. Now, shut up and let me run these numbers, or instead of Saturn, we'll wind up orbiting Neptune… backward, three feet below the surface."

"Sounds like fun," Gordon kidded, his hazel eyes merry. "Can I snorkel?"

"You can freeze to death… or get torn apart by thousand-mile-an-hour winds… or crisped by radiation. Almost as many laughs as God-dang Venus, down there! Now, zip it, Godfrey. I'm tryna think!"

Captain Taylor had harnessed himself to a strut, as there were no more chairs up front, and he found drifting about the cockpit too distracting. His laptop was anchored to the bulkhead before him, while a selection of tools, a water bag and one half-eaten sandwich hung in the air all around.

'Messy' took on a whole new meaning when your litter could orbit you. Gordon didn't care, but Alan (who was something of a vehicle neat freak) had to close his eyes and count backward from ten. No sense losing his crap over it, though; they were going to be out there, together, for a _really_ long time.

Bro road trip rule #1: what goes on vacation, _stays_ on vacation. Rule #2: everyone takes a turn driving, cooking and (if necessary) standing watch. Rule #3: you pull your bro out of whatever dumbass situation he's gotten himself into, and he'll do the same for you. Always.

Alan had grown up with these iron-clad Tracy laws, so he knew better than to raise a big fuss about Gordon and Lee's general sloppiness, or John's frequent side-trips. Whatever happened, you did _not_ break the bro code. You dealt. And biggest, most important of all… Rule #4: you _never_ went running to Dad.

Throw a punch, buy a drink, make up with an equal favor, later on; all okay… but you _never_ took your problems to the old man. Follow the rules, and little annoyances became funny stories for later. Fail to follow them, and… well… Alan wasn't sure, because it had never happened. But he didn't intend to be first. Whatever went on between here and Titan, he'd handle, because that's what Tracys did. And Alan had a whole lot to live up to.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _FAB-1, approaching Britain, early afternoon-_

They'd crossed the ocean, bypassed India, and then flashed across continental Europe, before coming in sight of home; making two brief stops along the way, on a whim of Penny's. By this time, she'd emerged from her Scott-fog, and was able to think once again. The World Council Building (formerly Parliament) was in London, and Penelope had every intention of going prepared into battle. A lot of grotty old barristers those thirteen councilors might be, but only a fool walked into a possible trap completely unarmed.

Parker brought them in low, avoiding official GDF air traffic almost reflexively. He crossed the channel and chalk cliffs, roughly following the Thames until he reached World Government Plaza, passing the rebuilt 'new city', along with the scars and survivors of the old. He banked around Big Ben for luck, before proceeding to the plaza, and putting down in a reserved diplomatic parking spot; soft as thistle down.

"Thank you, Parker," said Lady Penelope, inclining her blonde head. She was beautifully dressed in a dove-grey, vintage Saint Laurent suit and stiletto heels, carrying an heirloom Chanel bag, and the deep pride of a Creighton-Ward. Subtle jewels decked her earlobes and throat, making her look every inch the moneyed, jet-set princess.

Even Kayo had taken advantage of their last, quick stop to dress up a bit. She wore a simple black sheathe dress topped off with a smart blue blazer, and low-heeled, sensible shoes. Unlike Penny, Kayo had never learnt to fight effectively in high fashion footwear, and right now, she was very much missing her boots.

As for jewelry, she had on a gold charm bracelet bearing one ornament for each of her brothers, plus Grandma, Dad, and her own lost parents. They were very personal things, most of them twenty-karat gold, and she almost never explained them; wearing the bracelet most often in one of her sash pouches. There was room for one more charm, but that one belonged to someone she'd not yet encountered… but warmly hoped for.

Kayo almost let herself out of the vehicle before catching Penny's slight head-shake and pursed lips. Not used to being waited upon, she huffed a noisy sigh and thumped back against the seat, until Parker came 'round to her side of the car and opened the door.

"Thanks, Parker," she grunted, feeling rather foolish. "You want to carry me, too?"

The driver hoisted a bushy grey eyebrow, saying,

"Beggin' y'r pardon, Miss Kayo?"

 _D*mn, she hadn't meant to say that, aloud!_

"Um, nothing. Sorry, Parker. Just… just re-fighting an old argument with my brothers. You know how it is…" Kayo forced a smile, hitching herself across the soft beige leather seat, to spring forth. "…older sibs want to do everything for you. If they had their way, I'd still have training wheels and nappies."

"Quite so, Miss," Parker murmured, much too professional to show his feelings. Hoping that he'd believed her thin story, Kayo smiled again, and then hurried after Penny.

Outside of FAB-1, the air had a decided bite to it. Since the Gulf Stream had shut down, all those decades ago, warm water no longer swept past Britain's shores. The climate had cooled considerably, compared with pre-conflict times. The skies were usually clear, though. That was a plus.

Penny had slipped into her 'smiling, benevolent aristocrat' mode; chatting with fans, posing for selfies and graciously acknowledging all those cheers and compliments with a slight nod or a graceful wave. Kayo stalked along behind her, feeling surly and out of place in Penelope's warm golden shadow. She smiled her way through what felt like an unending storm of chirped greetings and air kisses, instantly sorry that she'd come.

They _were_ moving forward, however. Penny seemed to stop for everyone, yet they somehow managed to pass the twin marble pillars of Peace and Unity, glowing pale in the afternoon sunlight; then the bronze arch of enlightened progress, under which everyone must pass to reach the wide, mirror-paneled World Council Building.

It had been designed to convey a feeling of unity, so, amid all of those mirrored glass windows were LED screens displaying scenes from around the globe, and a few of the safer colonies. These views were on a thirty-second delay, and they shifted constantly, giving the tourists and school groups quite a show. Penelope thought it garish, but Kayo valued anything likely to distract her potential targets. Plus, some of the views were quite nice. Soft chimes rang, representing the voices of the human race. Tiny colored lights twinkled in the walkway, spelling out 'Welcome', in Basic.

As they were passing the Fountain of Egalitarian Hope, though, Kayo felt something strange; like an itch or a tickle inside of her skull. It felt rather like a rush of bubbles, or skittering insects, and it made Kayo glance sharply at Penelope, hissing,

"What's that?! Some sort of new brain scan?!"

Penny gave Kayo a sweet, beaming smile of warning as she chatted up, and then packed off, an old friend of Sir Hugh's.

"I'm sure I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking of, dear girl," the aristocrat purred, waving at the old gentleman as he toddled off. "This is a public square, belonging to the people. Of _course_ , there are no covert surveillance devices, here."

Uh-huh. _Right._ Kayo put on a carefully neutral expression, and focused on sweet bunnies, fluffy duckies and bright flowers. Once more, she felt that odd, internal brain tickle, this time more insistently. Almost… seeming tinged with disgust at her lack of response. Then, it was gone.

Kayo drew a camera out of her bag, and then swung about, peering through its lens as though hunting for the perfect selfie spot. Really, though, she was looking for anything out of the ordinary, in this deliberately calm, neutral, _supervised_ place. Nothing… nothing… then… maybe?

She spotted, and instantly memorized, the tall, rigid form of a dark-haired male, late teens, early twenties, striding away across the plaza. Well dressed, but not flashy, with nothing about him to reveal his business, or point of origin. Had he been using a mind scanner, or neural-pulse generator? And why had only _she_ sensed it? Such technology was rare, illegal and extremely blunt. A tree stump would have noticed their use… and yet no one else in the wide, chilly plaza had so much as turned a hair; not even Lady Penelope. That meant that the touch had been very high-tech, and tightly focused… but, why? That part of her which lived for the hunt, for the chase, began stirring once more.

 _'I don't know who you are,'_ she said to the perpetrator, in her mind, _'but you've already lost. I don't forget, and I never give up!'_ One way or another, she intended to find the young man, and beat a few answers out of him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1, departing Bangalore-_

They had shadowed Triumphant all the way to her intended destination, only banking away when Virgil brought the stricken airship safely down on a specially cleared and foamed runway. The flight had been uneventful, thanks to Hackenbacker's constant monitoring and adjustments; carrying them from midocean, across the coastlines of Ceylon and southern India, to the high, tree-shaded jewel that was Bangalore. A number of GDF transports had joined them on the way in, courtesy of Colonel Casey. Even so, there were authorizations and special permits to wait for, as India, like the former United States, was an environmentally sensitive 'protectorate'. All in all, it took them nearly four hours to deliver Triumphant, hand her off and then depart the battered subcontinent, which was still mostly buried in hardened dark lava.

As they were leaving, Jeff shook his head, saying,

"You know, Son… sometimes I think that I should have kept this organization a secret. Less red-tape and diplomacy, that way!"

Taking a break from his instruments, Scott glanced back at his father; ready to smile, if the old man was joking.

"Um… _how,_ Dad? With modern satellite coverage, there's not a square inch on Earth that isn't clearly visible. Not even the Atlantean dome cities. Where and how could you hide all those launches? I mean, the heat signatures, alone…"

Jeff sighed.

"I know, Son… but you've got to admit, working on our own, without all of this God-d*mned interference, would be nice."

Scott got into the spirit of the thing, after a moment or two, dipping his wings in farewell to the GDF before saying,

"Heh! Yeah… we could have code names, and hide out in our secret island base… keep our pictures off-line, and pretend to be just a bunch of wealthy layabouts."

Then, just as Scott was getting warmed up, they got a call and holo from Brains.

"Thunderbird 1, from T- Tracy Island,"

"Go ahead, Brains," said Jeff, automatically responding.

"M- Mr. Tracy, I, ah… I believe that if y- you can get, ah… get c- close enough to where the m- microwave beam is disappearing, I may be, ah… be able t- to track it."

Jeff squinted, his brown eyes turning suddenly grim. He had a time limit. Also…

"Not _too_ close, Brains. I won't needlessly endanger my son, or his Bird. Send the coordinates, and, um…" he craned his head around the back of Scott's seat, having recalled who was supposed to be in charge.

"And we'll go have a look," Scott finished. "I mean, if all that energy's being ported off, there are going to be traces of a destination code, right?"

He was a pilot, not an engineer or a physicist, but even he knew that porting energy or information required two ends and two sets of coordinates. Simple physics, right?

"While you're at it, Brains," Added Scott, fighting back an exhausted yawn and a rumbling belly, "tell Virge to suit up and join us in 2. I've got a feeling that we're gonna need some muscle, on this one."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Titan, near the frosty shores of Lake Endurance-_

Once more in his helmet and space suit, Buddy cycled the pod's air into the reserve tanks for safe keeping; all the while narrating his doings for Ellie's armored camera.

"'Course, the pod's scrubbers c'n take oxygen right outta them surface water-ice rocks, n' buffer it up with some o' that free nitrogen Titan's rife with, but why strain the old girl's batteries, eh?"

He winked, patted the curving bulkhead, and said,

"Takin' care of our gear and our ute, out here in the back of Bourke's what'll keep us kickin', till we snare the elusive mud worm, right, Ellie?"

"Reckon, Buddy!" she replied, smiling warmly.

"Righto, then, out we go!"

And with that, Buddy Pendergast popped the hatch, hopping free of the pod and back out onto Titan's icy-cold, oily surface. It felt amazing to stretch his leg again, after sitting around, for so long. He whooped aloud, shouting,

"Holy Dooley, what a sight!"

For it had started to rain, and the once dry river bed was now coursing high with liquid methane. Thunder rumbled, rain hissed and spattered upon their helmets. Oily wavelets lapped against water-ice rocks. More than that, though, there was _motion_. There, amid the tumbled stones of the lakeshore.

"You gettin' this, Ellie?"

"On it, Bud! Shall we go have a squizz?"

Buddy's grin was almost wider than his helmet's faceplate. Thinking first (last and always) of their show, he announced,

"This is _'Into the Unknown, with Buddy and Ellie'_ , and here, literally right on our doorstep… it's started to rain, and Titan's come alive, like the Gafa, after a storm! Follow me, as I risk my life to approach, and wrestle, the mighty Titanean Mud Worm. Often rumored, never seen… until now!"

He looked just like a kid at Chrissie, and Ellie couldn't help whooping along, for boundless love and sheer joy. She panned the camera and zoomed out just a bit, keeping Buddy in view, but allowing what lay beyond him to come into focus.

There was that smoggy yellow-brown sky, streaked now with storm clouds and pelting, silvery rain. A tall scarp off to their left had developed a roaring cascade. Saturn still dominated the sky, though partially blocked by clouds, with the Sun like a very bright star, just above. But the money shot… the real magic… was the lake shore, where thousands of slim, shining brown tubes had begun questing their way up between rocks. Their towering ends seemed to bloom, then; bursting with long, feathery-pale fronds. Here, too, rain brought life. Just like back home, in Oz.

Buddy started to say something, then had to stop and clear his throat. At home, he'd have removed his hat, tipped his face up, and let the rain caress him, before kissing the breath out of Ellie. Here, that would have been deadly… but the emotion remained. Nothing a clever commercial break couldn't fix, he reckoned.

"Welcome back to Titan, on _'Into the Unknown'_. I'm your host, Buddy Pendergast, with my best mate, cook and camera-sharp, Ellie Pendergast, and we're about to take you closer than anyone's ever been to the elusive… and right _beautiful_ … Titanean Mud Worm!"

Once more, Buddy winked at the camera, then grinned and made a sweeping gesture. Lowering his voice to an urgent whisper, he said,

"C'mon, you lot! Let's go have a Captain Cook!"


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks, as always, for reading and reviewing. It's a great deal of fun to write.

 **7**

 _Tracy Island, that same evening-_

Virgil had bounded to his feet at Scott's launch order, more than ready for a little genuine action. Remote-flying airships wasn't the same thing, at all. With a quick thumbs-up for Brains and a hug for Grandma, he loped to a certain picture on the wall, then turned around and stepped back onto a pressure sensitive pad. When it detected his weight, the picture unlocked and began to pivot, tilting him backward onto a long track. Down he slid, being dressed and shod by the busy launch droids. The entire process took less than five minutes, and ended with Virgil swinging athletically into Thunderbird 2. Grandma had seen him off with a quick kiss and one of her special "care packages", which he'd had to grip in his mouth, all the way down.

Now, after landing on the deck of his Bird with the fluid power of a leopard, Virgil hauled shut the boarding hatch. He waited for it to clang and latch before tossing Grandma's latest "burnt offering" onto the growing pile in Thunderbird 2's auxiliary tool bin. Then, he strode up front, allowing the tune in his head to burst forth as song.

Vaulted into his seat, strapped in, pulled down on the yoke release, and then fired up his big girl's engines. The entire cockpit rang with his voice as a line of pods ground along beneath the giant cargo lifter, stopping this time at number 2. Reaching a crescendo and holding his note, Virgil triggered 'descent and capture'. He felt his girl settle onto the pod, then clamp down and lock it solidly into place, timing the end of his song to match that final, resounding _**CLANG**_!

"V- Very nice, Virgil," said Brains' holo, as Grandma applauded in the background. "And n- next time, we promise to 'call you by your name'… but Scott is on his, ah… his w- way to the microwave focus sight, and he is n- not noted for his copious p- patience with delay, no matter how, ah… how tuneful."

"I hear and obey," Virgil grinned, feeling right with the world, despite the hair gel situation. (He was running short, again, and without gel, his straight dark hair would flop over like John's. Emma might think it was cute… she'd seen him in the morning with his hair hanging down in his face… but, no. Just, no.)

The hangar door rumbled out of the way, letting in a flood of tropical air and warm sea breezes. Let the other guys have space, and weird alien landscapes; Virgil Tracy had everything he wanted right here on Earth. (Except maybe hair gel… had to plan a stop for that, somewhere along the way… and maybe sneak in a visit with Kraft.)

"Ready to roll, Big Girl?" he asked aloud, throttling up. His Bird responded with the low, bass rumble of her taxi engines, then began gliding forward, as floodlights caressed her emerald skin. Moments later, they were out of the hangar's fluorescent lighting and back under the starry sky, with nothing but night and the ocean ahead of them.

Triggering his launch ramp and powering those massive Pratt and Whitney engines up to a howl, Virgil began belting out the chorus, again.

 _("Well, I'll hang around as long as you will let me;_

 _And I never minded standing in the rain…._

 _"Oh, you don't have to call me darlin'… Darlin'!_

 _You never even called me by my_ _naaaaaaame_ _!")_

And then, he was airborne, again, watching the horizon first tilt, and then drop away beneath him.

"Thunderbird 2 is go!" he called out, feeling pretty d*mn good.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Venus, bang in the midst of Cleopatra Patera-_

He'd finally reached the big, hulking soil conditioner. Almost collided with it, actually, as that sulphuric tidal wave gale attempted to grind him against the pitted metal like a bug on a fast-moving windshield. But a fortunately timed leap carried him just over the tracked, oval mecha and down to the other side. There, he was out of the wind, and about ankle deep in sticky-hot granite. Took a second to free himself… really was just like walking on dense, sucking, super-hot mud… and then turned his attention to that badly carked droid.

"Hi, there," said John, placing a gloved hand against the conditioner's corroded armor plating. "What's a nice bot like you, doing in a dump like this?"

It was Eos who answered him, though; sounding torn between worry for _him_ , and concern for the troubled machine.

"It can hear you, John, but has lost most function and battery power, calling to base for help."

"Yeah, well… Thunderbirds are go, and all that. I'll see what I can do. Let's have a look, here…"

The maintenance access panel had been helpfully placed at the rear, up a short, flaking ladder just over the treated soil outflow tube. John climbed up, saying,

"Probably just the doovalacky, or the left-handed framistat."

"I am not familiar with those terms, John."

He pulled out a multi-tool, adjusted its setting after a judicious squint at the bolts on this model, then got the panel popped off in less than ten seconds.

"Make a h*ll of a car thief," he congratulated himself, adding, "That's because they're not real words. I was making like a shade-tree mechanic. It's a joke, Eos."

By this time, he'd set up a containment field to defend the bot's internals from the solar system's most psychotically murderous atmosphere.

"I see…" Eos chirped. "You were attempting to derive humor by emulating the speech of one who conceals his own ignorance through the use of confusing terminology. This is considered amusing?"

John shot the voice in his helmet an exasperated, sidelong look.

"Not when you put it _that_ way, no. Now, shut up a minute, Woman. I'm busy."

She began humming, which wasn't much better, but at least he liked the tune. The mech's insides were in much better shape than its plating; packed with oily systems and drive belts. The problem was easy to spot, once he'd halfway wriggled inside. Big d*mn rock, jamming the gears of its crushing apparatus.

"Bit off more than you could chew, huh, Fella?" he commented, adjusting power to his environment suit, which was beginning to smolder at the seams. "Just need to work this thing on out of there… _urf_ … stuck pretty tight… do me a favor, and don't start the crush-y, grind-y thing, until I'm out of here, okay?"

As John reached further inside for a better grip on the jammed rock, Eos stopped humming to say,

"It… he hears you, John, and agrees to allow safe departure, before resuming work. Also, he says 'thank you'."

"Awesome. Think I've… just… about… _got it!"_

More or less. He actually cracked the lodged stone in half, trying to work it free, but, hey… same difference. The giant gear teeth started to snap shut, but then froze, allowing John to pull his arms and upper torso out of danger. Reminded him of the Hunter, a little, but much less hostile. He gave the mech's engine housing a friendly pat.

"That's one problem solved, but you still need a jump-start. Hang on, I know a guy."

Bringing his right hand up, John tapped at the wandering red dot on his wrist comm. Switching partly to old German, he said,

"Okay, Buddy… let's see what you can do. Remember, we're repairing things, not destroying them. _Reparieren, Jaeger!"_

A flash of red light shot from his wrist comm to the stalled mecha's electrical system, drawing power from the violence outside, to recharge its battery. More than that, red energy flickered and dashed through the soil conditioner's interior, making many swift, subtle changes.

"Umm… _gute_ , I think. But let's seal this guy up, and get the h*ll out of Dodge, Jaeger. Customer's on the clock, and I've got a plane to catch."

He could feel and hear the mech's engines purr back to life. John smiled as he shoved himself out of the maintenance hatch and back onto the ladder. Three minutes to go, and so…

He got the maintenance panel back into place, then hopped off the ladder and waved at the bot, which flashed its lights in response. Then, the astronaut picked an area of ground at its sheltered lee side, and began stamping a pattern onto the gummy rock with his boots.

"John, what are you doing?" Eos demanded, completely perplexed.

"Carving my initials, what else? Fifty years from now, when there's a park here, imagine their shock and delight to find 'J.M.T.' right in the middle. And, before you say anything, _not_ a waste of time. The shuttle won't be back for another minute and fifteen seconds. I could carve a fricking monument!"

Eos produced an extremely un-lady-like snort, but assisted by placing lines on his helmet's heads-up display, showing him where to stamp next.

"Actually, John… in twelve-hundred of the nearest alternate universes, you proceed to trip, crack your face plate, and die of simultaneous acid burns, thermal shock and asphyxiation."

"Stop it with the odds," John told her, getting that final initial and period. "I hate odds. Anyway… in how many do I live?"

"All of the ones in which I am present to stop you from turning an ankle on _that rock_ , there."

He could hardly miss it, since she'd highlighted the thing on his heads-up display with a bright, blinking circle and stabbing red arrows. John stepped carefully sideways. Then he leaned over, picked it up, pinched a bit off the end, and heaved the sinister killer as far as he could, imagining that he intended to knock an annoying batter flat on his ass, with it. The stone sailed away in slow motion through dense, stinging air; was carried off by the wind.

"Not in _my_ park," he snapped, just as the robot shuttle roared up.

It dropped him a line and harness, which was a good thing, considering that his now bone-white suit was beginning to char. Helmet glass had gone all pitted and streaky, too.

"John," said Eos, in her best not-really-nagging-but-sort-of voice, "I strongly recommend that you increase your speed to maximum."

"Funny… I was thinking the very same thing, Pretty Girl." Then, as he got that already fraying harness fastened, and was drawn up into the shuttle's bay doors, "See? Told you I could do it."

Couldn't talk for a minute or so after that, because he was being doused with a mixture of detergent and sodium hydroxide; filling the shuttle's hold with loud ' _bangs'_ and a cloud of swirling fumes. He could hear, though, as Eos said,

"I wish I could kiss you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, in low orbit around Venus-_

Alan watched as Ishtar's robot shuttle came lancing out of those roiling, bile-yellow clouds. It was a mess; pitted, streaked and corroded from just two short encounters with the Venusian atmosphere. Hard to imagine that people would ever be able to _colonize_ that death trap, but the terraforming specialists were hard at work, so… maybe?

"Shuttle IS-2 requesting permission to dock," chimed a pleasant, mechanized female voice.

"Permission granted, IS-2," replied Alan, doing his best to sound older. It freaked people out, sometimes, that he was only sixteen. He'd have got Gordon to speak for him, except that his athlete brother was in the middle of a smoking air-guitar riff, to something playing on his earbuds.

One nice thing about their brother, John… he was all the time finding and sending them pre-conflict music he'd salvaged from old, rescued devices. Games and videos, too. Sure, the stuff was illegal… but how could you let a whole world, a whole frickin' _culture_ , just disappear? Scott pretended to be above all that, but he listened, too, while Virgil, Gordon and Alan openly ate the stuff up. They'd developed their own 'pre-conflict download' language of cool phrases, as a consequence.

Anyways, the shuttle's guidance-bot didn't get all worked up over Alan's squeaky voice. It simply maneuvered alongside, using jets of air and brief rocket burns.

Alan watched through one of the lateral cams, splitting the viewscreen to display the shuttle's approach. By this time, Captain Taylor had finished working his figures, and he'd come up to float behind Alan's seat, one hand on the headrest.

"Hummph," he snorted. "Things 're gone ta h*ll in a handbasket, when robots do all the flyin'! Never catch _me_ lettin' a God-dang machine take over!"

"Yes, Sir," Alan agreed respectfully, making ready to deploy the airlock's docking collar. "Only, I think they don't get a lot of volunteers to fly down in all _that."_ Meaning Venus.

"Hmmm… You may have a point there, Alvin… but I'd still rather fly, my own self. Bet Jason ain't too happy about it, neither."

"We'll find out in a second, Uncle Lee. He'll be back aboard, soon!"

By this point, IS-2 was snug alongside, having targeted and pulled up to the airlock. Alan deployed the docking collar, giving Ishtar's shuttle a place to park. He heard and felt a resounding **THUNK** , as the robot shuttle latched on. Then,

"Capture! Docking complete, IS-2. Good job!" Sure, it was only a robot, but everyone needed a boost, now and then; even mechanicals. Even Alans.

"Thank you, International Rescue. Your operative has completed the mission, and is now re-boarding your spacecraft. Planetary Director Singletary wishes to know if the operative is to be paid for services rendered."

Ishtar's slow-spinning ring had just crested the sunlit west limb of Venus. Alan wrinkled his short, freckled nose in thought.

"Nah… he gets an allowance, same as the rest of us. Just send his reward to the IR non-profit rescue fund, and it'll go toward saving others, sometime. Um… and send lots of frozen pizzas to Thunderbird 5. He likes those. Only, no mushrooms, okay?"

"Message received and passed on, International Rescue. Planetary Director Singletary offers his thanks, and sends best wishes for a speedy and safe journey."

"Okay, you too!" said Alan, smiling broadly. No school for months (because… _oops_ … he'd forgotten to register for the next set of lessons) talking to robots and flying in space. Could this day _get_ any better? "See you next time, IS-2!"

Then, to the airlock, once Ishtar's shuttle had decoupled and jetted away,

"Hey, Bro! Welcome back! You okay? How was Venus? Did you bring me anything? Is the mech repaired?"

He heard a brief, gusty sigh. Then,

"Hi. Thanks. Fine. Hot. Sort of. Yes… and I'm going to need to decontaminate, for a while. Venus, um… _lingers_. Suit's about shot, but I packed a spare."

Naturally, Alan zeroed in on the single most salient point in his brother's short speech.

"What do you mean 'sort of', John? What did you bring me?"

"Nothing, if you keep pestering. Now, start that de-con, please. I'm going to lose the suit before it melts right down to my skin, but the fumes are still pretty strong in here, and I can't open a window. That would be bad. Tell Brains that we need to upgrade future models for acid environments."

"Will do, Bro. Sit tight, and we'll get you cleaned up. I've got the pump recycling the air for you, too. Need anything else?"

"A double cheeseburger would be nice… or, you know, some towels."

Captain Taylor had already started on back, pushing himself along against handy surfaces.

"De-con wipes and an oxygen mask, comin' right up," he promised, his eyebrows forming a stern, intent line over those keen, blue-grey eyes. "Hang in there, Jase."

Up in the cockpit, Alan shook his head sadly.

"No can do on the cheeseburger, I'm afraid, John… but we've got plenty of Grandma's cookies, and I might be able to pry one of Gordon's celery crunch sticks away from him."

"Keep your hands off my stash!" Gordon growled, coming out of his music trance and heading after Lee. Over one shoulder, he added, "It's got to last all the way to Titan and back, plus save some for Buddy and Ellie. He can have my share of the cookies!"

For some reason, the offer did not enthuse John, who was actually pretty busy with peeling out of that disintegrating suit and trying not to dissolve. Alan kept a constant fresh recycle on the airlock, but a chemical scan of the outflow revealed its contents to be dangerously acidic, so he hit 'organic de-con' again and again, trying to raise that pH before John got more than a cosmetic chemical peel.

"Hey, here's an idea, Big Bro," Alan suggested brightly. "How 'bout no more Venus, like, _ever._ Okay?"

"Sounds good to me," John replied, apparently fighting a yawn. Either he was bored, or else really exhausted, and Alan voted for tired-about-to-crash.

"Um… listen, John. My scans say that it's coming from the suit, which is too far gone to decontaminate safely. I'm gonna have to space that thing… but we need to get you out of the airlock, first. Super-quick, when I open the inner hatch, you book it into 3, then I'll purge the lock, and you can finish wiping off, inside. Uncle Lee and Gordon are standing by with supplies for you. Sound like a plan, Bro?"

"Yeah. That'll work. Thanks, Al."

Alan smiled. Earning a nickname meant that he was doing all right.

"On three. Get yourself into position. One… two… _three!"_

He hit the inner hatch release, and then cheated by raising lock pressure, so that John was pretty much blasted inside. Snapped the hatch shut before that blizzard of contaminated suit shreds could follow and waited to get the all-clear from Gordon. Then, Alan purged the airlock, sending the last bits of Venus' malice shrieking out into space. Mission accomplished.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _London, on a chilly, late afternoon-_

Kayo put the unused camera away with seeming boredom, actually strolling a few steps before touching Penelope's arm and murmuring,

"You go on ahead, Penny… I've got a strong lead to follow."

Her tone was quiet and light, but her green eyes had grown very hard. Lady Penelope had seen that exact same expression from the Hood, over the barrel of a gun. Maintaining her sweet, slightly vapid smile, the young noblewoman hissed,

"But, Kayo… you are my chief character witness for our dear Scott and John. You simply _must_ testify, or my case will fall to bits, and I shall be reduced to blackmail!"

Right. Only, Kayo was finding it difficult to focus on Penny's words, so powerful was her urge to hunt and pursue.

"You'll do fine. Just… get things started, and I'll arrive as soon as I've wrapped this up. It's important, Penny. Someone has a powerful, illegal mind scanner, and he's been using it on me. I've got to find out what's going on!"

She was already moving by that point, Penelope no more than a dim shadow in her consciousness. Having caught her quarry's trace, she could have followed him to h*ll and back. In fact, he seemed to glow like a torch ahead of her, striding amidst the crowding shadows of tourists and government types.

If Penny replied, Kayo didn't hear, and didn't care. All that mattered was finding her prey and pinning him down. Moving with speed and purpose, she slipped through the crowd like a ghost. Would have gone even faster, except for those ridiculous "dress-up clothes". D*mn Penny, for insisting she look "presentable"!

But he was moving quickly, too; making for the plaza's east entrance, where it opened onto the rebuilt New Town. The place was a warren, and always packed. Kayo kicked off the stupid girl shoes and increased her pace, not even feeling the ground.

She reached a broad marble archway, decorated with the flags of many lost nations, just two minutes after her quarry, but he was nowhere in sight. No matter. Kayo's senses were keener than normal, and included something that she'd never been able to explain, not even to Dad, or her brothers.

Quite simply, having got a fix on someone, she could sense their presence, no matter how well they thought themselves hidden. Ignoring all else, filtering sensory input through sheer, predatory instinct, Kayo found her man. He'd ducked into the back of a cheap souvenir shop, and stood there, as if awaiting her.

Clear through the pressboard wall of the shop, he glowed to her senses; triggering something inside of the girl. Had Kayo possessed claws, they would have been bared. Had she been covered in fur, it would all have been standing on end. She stalked… as the Mechanic had, back in ruined Edinburgh… toward her meat, her cornered prey.

Tore her blue jacket off, too, before slipping through the shop's broken back door; wanted nothing encumbering movement. If anyone else saw Kayo do this, they were smart enough to stay out of her way.

It was dark inside, and packed with leaking boxes of cheap, gimcrack jewelry and World Council flags. But she didn't need vision to see him. That weird feeling scraped at the front of her brain, again; like a nest of hornets where none ought to be.

"Stop that!" she snarled, fighting to block the sensation. "You can't control me with scanners or mind bombs!"

"Half-wit!" he spat, emerging from shadow like a mountain peak out of the fog. "Lap-dog! Why have you followed me?"

"Why were you trying to scan me?!" she countered, as they circled one another. He was young, she guessed; about her own age, dressed mostly in black.

"Idiot!" he responded, smooth and beautiful as a serpent… and every bit as trustworthy. His eyes, like hers, were green, and very, very hard. His hair was dark. "Can you truly be that ignorant… _Tanusha?"_

That needled her more than it should have done, because Kayo knew very little about herself, and her family.

"Who _are_ you?!" she shot back, needing answers, and willing to fight him to get at them.

"No one who need concern _you_ , lap-dog!"

"Stop calling me that! I'm… I'm a woman, a rescuer, and I'll beat the sh*t out of you, if you don't start opening up!"

He abruptly stopped the circling half-crouch, stood upright, and folded his arms.

"As if you _could,_ half-blood. Very well, I am Nikorr Kyrano, but I will be sick if I hear the name from your mouth, so do not repeat it. I believe that we are cousins, of sorts."

Kayo had stopped moving now, too. A sudden surge of emotion flooded her to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her pony-tailed hair.

"Cousins…? Then, why do you hate me so much? Why all the insults? I… didn't know there was anyone left! Did the machines get your family, too?"

Instinctively, she'd taken a small step forward, but Nikorr drew backward and spat on the ground at her feet.

"Why? Because you stink of them! That litter of mongrels you've attached yourself to! You don't even know how to _speak_ or _hear_ properly! Cannot respond to a greeting!"

Kayo hugged herself, then, all of her hunt-lust extinguished.

"I don't know what you're on about. The Tracys are my family," she whispered. "They took me in, when…"

"No!" he snapped. "They are quarter-breeds, at best; muddied, confused and pathetic! They've lost the way, and drawn you off, as well! Two of them came near to killing the previous Kyrano, and I _will_ have blood for it, over your twitching corpse, if necessary!"

Kayo blinked. Part of her understood him completely. Most of her wanted to retch in a corner. Scott and John… in _his_ hands?

"Not in a million years, on the best day of your snotty, arrogant life, you piece of sh*t!" she snarled back. "Come near my brothers and I'll break you in half!" Then, as a sudden thought occurred, "Are _you_ the reason that the World Council's so hot to prosecute somebody?! Have you been manipulating them?!"

Nikorr cocked a straight, dark eyebrow, and gave her a deeply sarcastic slow-clap.

"Brava. It _can_ be taught," he mocked. "Yes, Tanusha. I have been controlling that pack of gowned fools the 'typicals' bow to. A simple matter, as they are largely corrupt and terribly weak. That you… or _they_ … would allow yourselves to be commanded by such vermin defies comprehension."

Progress. He'd stopped with the death threats, at least.

"We don't make our own laws," Kayo said stoutly. "That's just chaos."

Nikorr shook his head.

"Do you really _believe_ that… or are you simply repeating their craven nonsense?" he jabbed.

Kayo's mouth opened, then shut again. She really, truly, did not know what to say. Nikorr's vivid green eyes narrowed, suddenly.

"A bargain, then. I will release my grip on the Council of Fools… and you will bring 'The Hood' and yourself to our stronghold, with 'Scott' and 'John'. They will face trial, _our_ way… and you will rejoin your true family."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Union Jack_ _, near Norfolk Island, on the Tasman Sea-_

Lieutenant Kraft sat back from her comm, blinking rapidly. The news was, well… _wow._ She'd have called him, anyhow, but then her private line lit up from Thunderbird 2.

"What's up, Tracy?" she responded, after hitting the comm. Kraft was smiling with her whole face and her eager, forward-leaning posture.

Virgil's handsome image appeared on her screen, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Nothing much, Angel… just crossing the Ditch on my way to join Dad and Scott, saw you hanging around Norfolk, and thought: _Hey, bet Union Jack's got an onboard store._ You do, don't you?"

Becoming interested, now, in more than just his muscles and clefted chin, Kraft nodded.

"Sure do, Taz. Sells everything from ships' hats to soap-on-a-rope. What do you need?"

He leaned toward the comm pick-up, his end, lowering his voice a bit to say,

"Hair gel. I'm almost out. Since you guys are over by Norfolk, I figured I could fly over, ramp on down to the deck, and then remote-land Thunderbird 2 on the island while I shop and, um… other things."

Emma's smile broadened, as those big green eyes lit up her face.

 _"Other things,_ Mister? What makes you think that there's any of _that_ on the duty schedule?"

He grinned at her, looking impossibly smug and attractive.

"Because you like me. I can tell," he boasted. "Can I come over?"

Kraft pretended to frown thoughtfully, flicking through the pages of an imaginary schedule.

"Well, let's see… suppose I can work you in, Tracy, as long as you're quick."

Virgil's grin got a whole lot wider, and a bit more wicked.

 _"Quick?"_ he teased. "Don't know about that. True artistry takes time, Woman… But I'll do my best to show support for our armed forces, the best way I know how."

"Jerk," Kraft snorted, fussing at her blondish-brown hair. "How soon can you be here?"

A deep, bass vibration thrummed clear through her vessel as something huge passed overhead, blocking the starry sky.

"Now," he told her. "I can be here, right now."


	8. Chapter 8

As always, thanks for the views and kind words, Echo and Akimakel. Road's a bit rocky, right now, but writing's a welcome outlet.

 **8**

 _Jakarta, late evening, in a cramped little shanty hostel-_

He tossed the dead courier onto a cheap, white plastic table; other than a stained, sunken mattress, the room's only furnishing. He hadn't chosen the place for its luxury accommodations, however. He'd selected it for the jammed government frequencies and extremely private clientele. Anything could be happening in those shabby, vid-shielded rooms, and probably was; murder, kidnap, extortion, prostitution, or worse… but what World Gov didn't know, was good business.

Having strangled the smaller man and silenced his flashing emergency beacon by crushing it in one massive fist, the Mechanic proceeded to scan the stiff's transaction device, then rinse and transfer all of the credits it housed. Only then did he sling the corpse across the room. It struck the far wall with a loud _thud,_ and then slid to the floor, still looking shocked and afraid.

Next, he turned his attention to the package which had been brought to his ten-credit room by the luckless courier, just five minutes earlier. The parcel was print-locked and shielded, but no problem to get into, if you had the right talents. Being a Kane (although not _the_ Kane… not yet) the Mechanic was a cybermancer; he could give limited life and intelligence to nearly anything mechanical, with just a touch and a moment's concentration. Could create and control the mechs, too.

So now, the Mechanic placed his one good hand on the package and squinted in concentration, his amber eyes narrowing to mere slits. The circuitry within it heard and obeyed him, arming itself to tear free of the bulky parcel. Within seconds, the brown plastic mailing tube half tore, half melted; opening wide to reveal a powerful battery pack. Easily altered, those batteries were quasi-legal and very expensive.

The Mechanic grunted. Good stuff, and important, but not nearly as valuable as its wrapping. See, what had looked like mere insulation and RFID shielding now peeled itself apart into shimmering, cybernetic strands. Then, at the Mechanic's direction, the glowing stuff began weaving itself into a new cyborg limb, incorporating the stolen raw materials he'd stacked alongside. Layer by layer, it formed a new hand, to cover the stump of own missing left.

Working like an artist conducting an orchestra, the Mechanic waved his good hand and clawed prosthesis, causing the new limb to twitch, jerk and grow as it knitted cybernetic tendons to titanium-alloy bones. His real hand had been torn to shreds when the Hood removed all his circuitry. He'd had to have it amputated, after infection set in, here in Jakarta. Going "home" for treatment had not been a safe option. Among the Kanes, like the Kyranos, displays of weakness earned you nothing but laughter, torment and death. But the Mechanic wasn't ready to die. Therefore, he'd holed up, arranged to sell the Sentinel back to those effing Kyranos, and begun buying parts with which to repair himself.

At this point, he was nearly complete. Wanted only the cross-spectrum goggles and mask that the Hood had crushed before his eyes, to feel normal, again. But the goggles were highly-modded, after-market gear; not the sort of thing you could order online. For that, he needed a true craftsman, and the money or threats to control him with. He needed "H.H", again.

And that meant Sentinel. With the mighty laser weapon back in his possession, the Mechanic would be able to extort billions of credits from World Gov and their puppets… possibly even one of the Thunderbirds (3 for preference; he liked her bright color and clean, simple lines). All he had to do was attack the Kyranos, and take back what he'd sold them. Simple stuff, considering how young and inexperienced their new leader seemed to be.

Removing his clawed prosthesis with a sharp, brutal twist, the Mechanic readied himself to graft on that new cyborg hand. His stump was raw and inflamed, still, but that didn't matter. Any sort of medicine, spice or drug could be had in Jakarta, if you had the money to pay, or the muscle to take it. He'd rob and slaughter an underground medic, later. For now, he wiped the stump down with a stinging alcohol pad, then switched on the new hand and pushed his maimed limb into its socket.

There followed a period of time when the Mechanic breathed rough and hard, staring into the dead man's brown eyes and silently cursing the Hood and all of his wretched d*mn family. Wires mated to nerve endings, after burrowing in through his flesh. Metal welded itself to bone with several loud, sizzling _cracks_ and the stench of charred meat. Thin, acrid smoke filled the small room, which already stank of terror and faeces.

Still, he locked his gaze to the murdered courier's, feeling steel tendons stretch and restring themselves, each one tracing its path in fire. Although his breath became horribly ragged, his vision blurred and he ground his teeth almost to stumps, the Mechanic did not scream, nor flinch away from his victim's glazed stare.

By the time that the new hand was completely attached, a functional part of him, he'd sworn bloody death to everything with the name Kyrano, starting with the Hood, and his b*tch of a niece. Very, very much they would pay for his trouble, while he laughed, had a beer, and enjoyed the show.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Union Jack_ _, at nearly the same time-_

In a hurry, but _really_ happy, Virgil Tracy got his uniform in order, all the while still kissing Emma. She, too, was busy; buttoning with one hand, and pulling him down by the back of the neck, with the other.

Neither wanted to part. Both had work to do. At last, Virgil broke away… darted in for one more, lingering kiss… then scooped up the plastic bag with his purchases in, and said,

"Gotta go, Angel… or I won't leave at all, and Scott 'll have to fire his own brother."

"Can't have that," Emma replied, trying to seem casual. "Otherwise, you'll never keep up with me."

Halfway to the cabin door, Virgil paused. That had sounded meaningful; like Kraft was trying to tell him something important.

"What d'you mean, Hon? There something I should know?"

Kraft got a funny look on her green-eyed face, at that; a little surprised, and a lot tender.

"You actually _listened,"_ she marveled.

"Well… _yeah,"_ Virgil replied, forcing himself not to check the time. "I'm good at that. Middle brother, remember? I get to translate all those holy writs from on high to Doofy and Goofy… and Kayo. So… hit me. What's going on?"

Emma smiled, saying,

"I really _did_ want you to be the first to hear, then Mom and O'Bannon. I've been promoted, Tracy. Once the paperwork goes through, you're looking at _Captain_ Kraft, of the God-d*mn World Navy."

Virgil whooped, bounded over, picked Emma up, and whirled her around.

"Congrats, Angel! That's awesome! Wait…" he said, putting her down, again. "…are you getting a bigger ship, with more landing space? Will they send you away from this end of the pond?"

Kraft wriggled free of his embrace, looking like a petite, pretty bag of mixed emotions.

"Eventually, maybe… but there's nothing available, right now, so unless someone makes a port turn at the starboard rail and falls overboard, or gets court-martialed, I'll be Captain Kraft of the Union Jack, for a while longer… and I'll do my d*mndest to stay here in the Pac. You know… stay with you. I mean, if that's what you want, Tracy."

"What I _want_ …? Woman," he drew her fiercely close, again. "It's tearing me up to leave you right _now,_ but Dad and Scott need me, so…"

"I understand," she nodded, against his broad, green-sashed chest; once again mussing her blondish-brown hair. "It's your job. And at least you won't be gone for three frickin' _months._ Poor Ree!"

Virgil made a sympathetic face, kissed her forehead, then released Emma and turned back for the hatchway.

"Reason 12,573 why 'no space'. Long d*mn road trips with family. Don't get me started on reason number one. I'll be back, _Captain_ … don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"No limits. Got it," she teased, adding, "Take care, Mister. I want you back in one piece, and fully mission-capable."

Virgil grinned, threw a kiss, and loped out the cabin hatchway, taking a big chunk of her heart along with him. Hurt like hell, sometimes, being in love. She hadn't expected that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, now sling-shotting around the Sun-_

After wiping down, John had been sentenced to a day of recovery in medical, but a stream of constant visits ensured that he didn't get much actual rest. Gordon, Lee, Alan… everyone dropped in at some point, to pester, advise or ask questions, Eos first among them.

He hadn't been lying down, as there was no favored direction in space. He'd been harnessed to the monitor, being med-scanned every thirty seconds for vital signs and the (extremely slim) possibility of infection by alien life forms. But anything that survived on Venus long enough to infect him deserved a fricking _medal_ , as far as he was concerned.

"John," said Eos, speaking through one of the hundreds of medical devices cocooning him. "Your physical and mental state are approaching seventy-two percent of optimal functionality. There are indications of extreme fatigue, however. Sleep is advised."

"Working on it," he said, without opening his eyes. He preferred to drift while sleeping, actually, but the harness wasn't too uncomfortable, and all of those ship and electronic noises sounded like music to the young, red-haired astronaut.

"It is pleasant, being alone like this… isn't it, John?"

"Mmm-hmmm…" he agreed, seeing her, halfway in dream-mode, as a hazy female silhouette.

"It would be a good thing for you, if this happened more often… don't you agree, John?" Her voice was very quiet, very gentle, and quite nearby; almost just a tickle in his right ear.

"Hmm…? Yeah… alone is good. Never happens, though. Not for very long."

Which, as if on cue, was when Alan swooped in, calling cheerfully,

"Hey, Bro! How's it going? Venus leave any lasting impressions?"

Because the rest of the family firmly believed that what everyone needed to recover best, was plenty of company. John's eyes flew open as he jerked fully awake, again.

"Hey, Alan," he greeted his youngest brother, without much enthusiasm. "Okay, I guess... and life-long memories of hell. I can state for the record that Venus sucks. A great experience, if you like being roasted, squashed and partly digested, all at the same time. Otherwise, keep off."

Alan laughed, in that fast, low-pitched giggle of his.

"Heh-heh-heh-heh! You should write travel brochures, John. You're really funny. But hey, what'd you…"

Before he could finish saying "bring me", John had fished in the one pocket of his blue medical coverall, and pulled something out. It was a little model of Thunderbird 3, pinched out of green-veined Venusian rock, about three inches high, give or take.

"Whoa…!" Alan breathed, blue eyes alight. "That's amazing! It looks just like my Bird, except, y'know… made out of rock, and not red. When did you make this?"

John shrugged, actually rather pleased that his brother liked the present, which had taken a bit more effort than he liked to admit.

"Eh. While I was being evacuated. The rock stays hot for awhile, so you can work it like clay, and I'm good at multi-tasking on the fly. No big deal."

"Hah!" Alan exulted, drifting into a bulkhead, and bouncing right off. "Bet no one else has one of _these!_ Just wait 'll I show Gordon! He'll try and get you to go back and make him one of Thunderbird 4!"

But John shook his head, no.

"Sorry. Shop's closed. Only way I'm going back _there,_ is if we get a legitimate rescue call, or they actually manage to terraform that b*tch. Otherwise, you have the only extant Venus carving ever produced by John M. Tracy."

"Thanks, Bro… I'll wait until I'm old, like, at least _thirty_ , before I sell it and make a fortune. Then you'll be a famous dead artist."

The astronaut was saved from responding to this, by the sudden gliding appearance of Captain Taylor. Yay. A crowd. His favorite thing.

"Awright, Alvin!" Lee growled, somewhere between stern and gruffly fond. "Get y'r ass back up ta the flight deck. Godfrey don't know what he's doin', up there."

"Yes, Sir! On my way, Uncle Lee! Later days, Dude! Thanks again."

Alan grinned, gave them a wave, and then shot off like a darting minnow. You really _couldn't_ stay mad at him.

"How ya feelin', Jason?" Asked Taylor, as he scanned the monitor readouts with narrowed, blue-grey eyes. "Got Venus out of y'r system now, Son?"

The younger astronaut nodded.

"Yes, Sir. You could say that." (In fiery, fifty-foot letters, carved high into a lofty mountain peak.)

"Good," Lee barked, fists on his hips. "Cause all this bouncin' back and forth between zero and full G ain't doin' you any good. Too much stress on y'r systems, Jase. Y'r tearnin' y'rself up. Believe me, Son, it's cumulative. Why d'you think I spend so much d*mn time on the Moon, besides Alphy needs me? I can't do that crap, no more! Only thing brings me back to Earth at all, these day, is you boys, y'r sister, and, um…" his voice dropped a register, becoming almost velvety. "That lovely auntie of yours. Think she likes me, Jase? I mean, as more'n just a quick fling?"

Oh, God. Stop. _Now._

"Um, I… well…" John's beautiful face nearly matched the shade of his hair. His blue-green eyes could not meet Taylor's eager, questing gaze. Thank every mechanized saint in his own quantum Heaven that Gordon came barreling in, just then, barely under control.

"Hey, guys!" he called out, as Taylor fielded him like a line drive, preventing wholesale injury and destruction of med gear. "Thanks, Uncle Lee. Alan needs you up front, Sir. He claims I'm rubbish at the controls, but he's really just jealous because I posted the first-ever picture of the mysterious back side of the Sun on my website. Also, he wants a second opinion on when to put out the sail. Don't worry, Sir. I'll keep John company. No one's ever lonely around _me."_

Which was undeniable. Desperate for escape, possibly. Lonely, never. Only the fact that Gordon had just saved him from the single most awkward conversation, _ever,_ made John happy to see him. (Pathetically grateful, actually.)

Completely distracted, Taylor muttered,

"What's he mean, 'a second opinion'? When I run the numbers, they d*mn well stay run!"

John waited until the older astronaut had cleared off, breathing threats and murder, before saying,

"Hullo, Gordon. What's on your mind?" (…that could possibly be worse than what he'd dealt with, so far?)

Gordon glanced nervously back over one broad, muscular shoulder, the grin fading from his sun-and-wind tanned face. Running a hand through his sandy blond hair, the swimmer cleared his throat and said,

"Got a question for you, John. Off the record, I mean. Like, _way_ off the record. You never heard this, forgotten as soon as we're done, off the record. Okay?"

John blinked. Took a deep, steadying breath. Right. Maybe it _could_ be worse.

"Well… as long as what you tell me isn't dangerous to you, or anyone else, Gordon, I'll keep my mouth shut. No iron-clad promises, though. I'll use my judgment, is all. Still want to talk?"

The swimmer bit his lip, appearing to consider. Then, flinging both hands out as he hovered in mid cabin, he said,

"Don't have any choice. I mean… I'm going crazy, John! I've got to tell _someone,_ and… well… you always listen, and you never get mad. I just… Hey, no one can hear what we're saying, can they?!"

John shrugged. Each cabin had comm pickup, which could be live at any time. There was no such thing as privacy, on an extended space flight. Not among family, anyhow. He did, however, have a secret weapon, of sorts.

Touching his wrist comm, John switched to German and murmured,

"Jaeger, privacy, _bitte_ ," then gestured at one of the bulkheads. Just guessing, really, but then a flash of red light shot from the comm to the bulkhead, spreading out in a lacy pattern of branching red circuitry and effectively sealing up medical. Not bad, at all.

 _"Danke,_ Jaeger," John said to the silent, rather surprising AI. Then, turning a little in his medical harness, "Okay. We're private. What's the four-alarm problem, Gordon?"

His brother nodded, seeming to draw courage from somewhere within. Then, in a husky, faltering voice, he said,

"I… can't stop thinking about her, John. I love her, I really do… Only, I can't tell her, or let it show… _What should I do?!"_

Seriously?

"Why does everyone _bring_ me this crap? I've got a degree in astronautics and physics, not God-d*mn relationships!" Then, as a sudden thought struck him, John became dangerously quiet. "Wait… who are we talking about, here?"

Gordon swallowed, hard. Although the name was always in mind, her beautiful face ever before him, it was _so_ hard to say out loud. But John had gone suddenly cold and still, like a man expecting trouble, so the athlete blurted,

 _"Penelope!_ I love her, John! I know I could make her happy, if I just got the chance, but…"

John's expression changed from bleak suspicion to utter, blank surprise. Then,

"Oh," he said, followed by, "Oh, sh*t."

"Yeah, _right_? She's not, you know… available. But ever since she kissed me, I can't stop wanting more. But it's not just physical, John. I'm really…"

"Find someone else," said John, shaking his head.

 _"You think I haven't tried?!"_ Gordon flared, miserable and angry, together. "There's women all over the place, willing to take my mind off of things, just because, well… they want me. I'm not against a little harmless fun… but that isn't love, John… and none of them mean a thing, compared to Penny! I don't know what to do, and I'm legit going crazy, here!"

"Scott…"

"Would kill me. I know. But I'm not sure how long that's going to stop me, John. Sooner or later, I'm going to have to let her know that she's got options, and then…"

"All hell will break loose. D*mn it! I hate bio-chem. Why can't life be as simple as solving equations?" John mused, distractedly. Then, he said, "Look, we're going to be out here for a while. That takes some of the heat off, anyhow. As I understand it, these things follow a sort of parabolic curve. Emotions are real intense, at the outset. They peak, and then they drop off. Friendship's a factor, though. If people are friends as well as lovers, they apparently last longer."

Gordon shook his head, stubbornly.

"It's forever, John. I _know_ it is. Do you plan to just cool off about Captain O'Bannon?"

Somewhat startled, John switched mental gears, checking on the contents of a different emotional box. Then, smiling just a little, he said,

"No. She's… important."

"Right. So, you get it, then. Penny's like that, for me."

John cursed, softly. Then, rubbing at the back of his neck with one slim hand, he said,

"Wait. If there's one thing I've learnt about females, it's that they'll let you know, if they're interested." Ridley certainly had. "She loves Scott, I'm pretty sure… and Scott doesn't talk about it, but he feels the same way about _her._ Gordon, I know you don't want to hear this, but you asked for my advice, so here it is: back off. Don't wreck someone else's relationship. You're going to have to be a man about this, no matter how much it sucks. Someone 'll come along. She may have to hit you over the head to get you to notice her, but it'll happen. You're what… nineteen?"

"Twenty," Gordon muttered, arms crossed on his chest, looking at the deck as he floated there.

"Right. Twenty. Well, I'm twenty-five, and I just got blindsided by O'Bannon in my own station, so anything's possible. Give it time, Little Brother. And avoid her as much as you can, without being obvious. Sometimes life isn't fair, and you just have to hang on the best way you know how. Sometimes, things work out. We got Dad back, right?"

Gordon sighed deeply and nodded, unfolding his tightly crossed arms.

"Yeah. We got Dad back. Thanks, John. I'll try my best to wait, and stay away from her… but it's hard, y'know?"

John thought about being away from O'Bannon for many long months, a topic he'd been ignoring since launch.

"Yeah. I know," he admitted. "But… you haven't beaten me at volleyball, yet, despite my many wounds. Bet you _still_ can't, even after fricking Venus."

Gordon's posture altered, suddenly. His expression changed and his muscles flexed.

"Is that a _challenge_ , old man? Because if it is, I'm gonna kick your scrawny arse! Let's go!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1, making broad, lazy circles over the Indian Ocean, near dawn-_

"What's taking him so long?!" Scott grumped, glaring at the cloud layer beneath them. "Virgil should have been here fifteen minutes ago!"

Jeff yawned, then craned around to peer through the lower view port.

"Looks like quite a storm down there, Son," he said. "Might be facing some contrary winds. You know how it is; you plan the flight, and then you meet reality. He'll show up."

Scott shook his head a little, still not used to this kinder, more relaxed father of theirs.

"Sorry, Dad. You're right. I know you're right. It's just… _Arghhh!_ Nothing happens fast enough! Sometimes I wish I could just clone myself, and do every job the right way, all of the time!"

Colonel Tracy chuckled, gazing down at roiling dark clouds silvered by moonlight and shot through with spears of violet lightning. A beautiful show.

"You'd miss them," he said.

"At dinner time, yeah," Scott agreed. "Not when they screw up my d*mn timetable. In fact, I'd… _Finally."_

Scott breathed a huge sigh of relief as Thunderbird 2's broad green nose slid up and out of the storm, slick with rainwater and sparking all over with Saint Elmo's fire.

"Evening, Dad… Scott!" Virgil called cheerfully, his holo image wearing a great big smile, and freshly gelled hair. "Sorry I'm late. That storm's a real bear."

"Next time, try flying _above_ the weather," Scott snapped, before their father could say anything. "Textbook stuff, Virge. You _know_ that!"

Scott Tracy's blue eyes had a way of almost glowing, sometimes, and they did it, now. He looked fierce, but Virgil did not seem overly concerned. Anyway, their father stepped in before the field commander could further erupt.

"Glad you could make it, Son," he told Virgil, while reaching forward to place a heavy hand on Scott's rigid shoulder. "This may get tricky."

And, with that, Jeff indicated the tightly focused microwave beam, visible only on scanners, that they'd been circling. The same one that had nearly destroyed Triumphant. It originated in the ionosphere, from a network of highjacked power collectors, and it ended in midair, just over those purplish storm clouds.

"Huh!" Virgil grunted, slowly losing his smile, as the mission took over. "Would you look at that! Enough power to run a continent, disappearing right in front of us. Be real interesting to find out where it's headed."

"That's the plan, Virge," Scott told him. Then, switching comm channels, "Brains, I'm scanning on all frequencies. Can you see anything?"

The engineer's holo, which had been popping in and out of the cockpit for nearly an hour, reappeared now beside Virgil's.

"Alas, n- no, Scott. I cannot… b- but my good friend and colleague, P- Professor Moffat, has also scanned the data, with m- more sensitive, quantum enabled instruments."

Hackenbacker's image turned slightly, evidently looking at something outside of their range. His face changed, becoming softer; somehow shier, and more open.

"Moffy? H- Have you experienced any, ah… any greater s- success?"

Professor Moffat's voice was just barely audible across the double pick-up, and her answer was quite a punch.

"Yes, Hiram, I have," she responded, sounding breathless and sweet. "The beam appears to be entering both a spatial _and_ a temporal gate. The power is being shunted away to another place and time, entirely. And… if I'm reading these destination coordinates correctly… most of it will reappear two weeks from now, within Mount Erebus, in Antarctica."

" _Most_ of it?" Scott cut in, leaning forward, his hands unconsciously tightening on the controls of his slowly circling Bird. "What's happening to the rest?"

"Well…" said Moffat's voice, faltering a bit, "I could be wrong…"

"N- No, Moffy. In seven w- wonderful years of collaboration, I have _never_ known you t- to be in error." Said brains, very firmly. "Tell us your, ah… your f- findings, Professor Moffat."

Visible to Brains, alone, the pretty, dark-haired scientist nodded, blushed and smiled.

"Thank you, Hiram. Your confidence means a great deal to me. The secondary coordinates place a beam of thermonuclear force emerging above the city of London, in two weeks' time… directly over the World Council Building. Someone intends to destroy our government, Gentlemen."

Scott's bright blue eyes went suddenly very wide, and his dimples all but vanished. Virgil's jaw dropped. Jeff became craggily grim, looking every second of his sixty-one years.

"Thank you, Professor," he interjected. "You've just saved millions of lives, and International Rescue is very much in your debt. Keep an eye on those coordinates, and let us know if anything changes." Then, turning to his eldest son, he asked, "Scott, what's the plan?"

Circling over a literal and figurative storm-front, hearing engine noise and feeling his Bird's subtle vibration, Scott sat slowly back in the pilot's seat.

"I think that someone in Antarctica needs a visit," he decided. "Right the h*ll _now."_


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks, you guys; especially Bow Echo, and Akimakel!

 **9**

 _London's New Town, in the back of a dark and dingy souvenir shop-_

Reflexively, she'd lunged at him, swinging for his face and gut, simultaneously. Somehow, unbelievably, he blocked her punches and twisted aside like a dancer. Tried to bust her in the jaw as he went past, but Kayo stopped the thrust, just barely. Grunting, she kicked out, but he wasn't there, moving like a quick, shadowy cat. They struck at each other repeatedly, but not one of the punches hit home. Finally, he managed to catch hold and throw her, ripping Kayo's dress at the left shoulder. She crashed into a stack of dusty old cartons, releasing a tidal wave of shiny bead necklaces and collapsed cardboard. Kayo leapt to her feet at once, but he'd done what no one _could_ do, except John, in his powered-up suit… he'd touched her.

"Shall we call it a draw, and get back to our bargain?" Nikorr mocked, not even breathing hard.

Kayo shook her head in sharp denial. Then, panting and channeling John, she made a counter-proposal.

"I can't speak for my brothers, and my uncle's a prisoner," the girl said to this vexing new cousin, "but if it's me you want, _that_ I can deliver."

Only, the handsome young man before her wasn't biting. He actually sneered at her offer, his lip curling in open disgust.

"Unless the assassins are part of the bargain, we do _not_ have a deal," he told her, his green eyes seeming to flare in the shadows. Kayo scowled at him, confused.

"What do you mean, 'assassins'?" she demanded, kicking at shiny blue beads, which rattled and hissed away across the floor. "The Hood isn't…"

"Dead? He soon shall be. Failure as complete and as public as his will not be tolerated, Tanusha. We are no softer on our own kind than on _them._ Therefore, they have killed him, unworthily. If your… 'brothers'… have any real claim to the Tracy bloodline, any right to put one of our number to shame and death, let them prove it in trial. Otherwise," Nikorr shrugged elegantly, his broad shoulders in that expensive dark suit scarcely moving. "They are just like the typicals… nothing but weak, witless cattle. Only, better armed."

Kayo's hands twisted themselves together behind her back… and _dammit…_ she was certain that he could feel her surging new doubts.

"You're a lying snake," she growled at him, moving her hands back to her sides and clenching her fists. "And you're mistaking _restraint_ for weakness. We protect, and we rescue, we don't kill. If my brothers decide to come, then we'll flatten your arrogant arse, together. If not, then I'll do it, alone… but nobody kills my uncle, not without a fair trial."

Nikorr cocked a slender, dark eyebrow. Very nearly, he smiled.

"I will take that as acceptance of our deal. These are the coordinates," he said to Kayo, eyes flaring again like green torches. "I shall place them upfront in your mind, where they cannot be lost, nor forgotten."

And all at once, the symbols were there; wherever she looked, and whatever she thought about: _77*31'47"S, 167*09'12"E, 250m, Dn._

Almost certainly, the glowing symbols were not a visual phenomenon, but she couldn't shake them, even with her eyes closed. How had he…?

Kayo's breathing roughened, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of showing alarm or surprise.

 _"Time,_ Jackass. When are we supposed to meet you?" she snapped, glaring at the smirking young demon behind that screen of softly glowing coordinates.

"Well… as one of my prime targets is away from Earth, at the moment, let us set the time for a month hence. Once a certain plan of mine reaches conclusion, I shall be able to accelerate his little "mercy mission" considerably. Then, I shall expect the pleasure of your company, with the former Kyrano, and your two mongrel brothers. Have we an accord? Consider carefully, Tanusha… a great many sheep lives hang on your words." Millions, to be more exact, although he didn't say so aloud.

Kayo kept her head up and her shoulders back. For some reason, she scoffed at him, rather than barking.

"Right," she said. "You _would_ be the sort who has to use threats to get a date. _Loser._ Maybe we'll show up in a month. Maybe we'll just blast your sorry arse from Thunderbird 5, now that you've painted a nice, fat target for us. Chew on that one, wanker… and, hey… thanks for the laughs. I'll show _myself_ to the door."

With that, Kayo turned around and stalked off; fully expecting to be struck from behind at any moment, but too proud to show concern. Made it. Walked on out the broken backdoor, and into the street beyond, suddenly conscious of her bare feet and torn dress in that chill, gusting wind. Naturally, her shoes had been pinched. Kayo had to buy a pair of cheap rubber sandals before hurrying back to the World Council Building, and Penny.

She slipped within the Chamber of Justice, just as they were playing footage of Scott's charge into the airship's presidential suite. In soundless slow motion, her older brother barreled through the smoldering doors, raised his zipline gun, and fired at a clearly hysterical Francois Lemaire, yanking something out of the man's hand. Camera angle made it impossible to see quite what it was, though. Then, Scott tackled the fellow, crushing him to the deck and bloodying his nose.

"Oh… d*mn," Kayo muttered, watching her brother act like an American wild man. All he needed was a lasso and a ten-gallon hat. Perfect.

Penelope, meanwhile, had noticed her friend's arrival. Her smile grew sweeter; her blue eyes bright and blank.

"Kayo," she whispered, "are you quite mad? _Where_ is your jacket? And whatever has become of your shoes and dress? You look a perfect urchin! If they call you to testify, they shall convict Scott directly, on suspicion of abuse and neglect!"

The truth? Or a good, handy lie? Compromise, Kayo decided. As the view switched to a wince-inducing picture of Jeff, Lee and Scott standing over the Hood's unconscious body, Kayo said,

"I pursued the suspect, cornered him in a shop, and we struggled." Which was accurate, more or less. "I forced him to reveal his HQ, but then he used… um, a smoke bomb… and got away. You know, like they always do."

Penelope grimaced, apparently in genuine, fashion-related shock. As the photo montage ended, and the chamber's lights came back on, she hissed,

"Take my shoes and jacket, quickly! We are about the same size, I believe. And _do_ try not to make a complete fool of yourself, attempting to walk. It is a natural, womanly art! Surely, even _you…"_

"Shut up and give me the d*mn shoes, Penny!" Kayo hissed back. "If I fall and break my neck, I'll haunt you into the next seven lives!"

And then, somehow, she knew… _knew…_ that he was present, waiting to laugh at her. Keeping a jaded smile on her face, Kayo struggled into the St. Laurent jacket, and switched shoes with Penelope. They were tight, and the heels made her stand up on dizzying tiptoe, but she would rather have been skinned alive and rolled in hot pepper than trip and fall before Nikorr Kyrano, wherever he was.

Then her name was called, and a bronze staff thumped upon the tiled floor, three times.

"Miss Tanusha K. Tracy is called before this panel of inquiry!"

Glancing casually about the large, wood-paneled chamber, she took in the horseshoe of leather council seats, and the expectant audience in their boxes. Then, Kayo sashayed on forward.

All the rest of her life, among her proudest accomplishments was that haughty, elegant walk on Penny's bear-trap stilettos. Head high, she arrived to stand before the half circle of, erm… "grotty old barristers", who really _did_ look like thirteen stern, bewigged zombies overlaid by glowing coordinates. A bow or curtsey was customary, at this point, but Kayo didn't dare; not in the footwear of doom. Instead, she gave them a flippant little salute and proud smile. A low buzz of disapproval arose from the audience, but the girl didn't much care. Let _them_ try to balance in those five-inch nightmares. _Then_ they could talk.

"You are Tanusha Tracy?" asked one of the councilors, peering down his long nose at her.

"Yes, Milord," she replied, shifting one hip to ease weight as she searched for relief. That the effect was flirtatious, Kayo had no idea. "I am."

"And you are the adopted daughter of Colonel Jeffery C. Tracy, hero of the realm, and founder of International Rescue, the organization currently under this body's scrutiny?" (This, from the new chancellor, a fellow named Reid.)

"Yes, Milord. I was adopted into the Tracy family at the age of 3 or 4. We aren't entirely certain which, as there are no records of my birth. Dad… Colonel Tracy… found me on one of his early rescues with Captain Taylor. He gave me a home, and a family."

"Yes, yes… all very touching, my girl," said Chancellor Reid, rather impatiently. Perhaps he was thinking of afternoon tea. Kayo certainly was… that, and her feet. "But we are not here to discuss your father, adoptive or otherwise. Instead, we are gathered to consider the actions of your brother, Scott William Tracy, who has been accused of savagely beating a man, nearly to the point of death!"

(Ironically, no one would _ever_ blame John, the eyes and ears of International Rescue; the calming voice and first point of contact, for all those in need.)

Around them, the audience murmured and droned like a stirred-up hive. Reid sat back, smiling thinly. _His_ mind was clearly made up, and this board of inquiry no more than the first step to conviction. But then, in her mind, she heard,

 _'Talk to them. I've lowered their defenses. They will listen.'_

Kayo nodded, took a deep breath, and then began.

"My lords and ladies, let me tell you about my brothers…"

She spoke for nearly an hour, uninterrupted. Telling the council all about camping trips in the backyard, being pulled about in a red metal wagon, learning to sing, to open presents, to give and receive little kisses. Sharing food, riding on big shoulders and kicking her feet to make Scott or John run even faster. Of wandering off and getting lost one night when dad was away, to be found by both of them, with a pair of bright torches and scratched, worried faces. She'd been just about crushed with hugs; carried back, half-asleep to where Grandma waited anxiously with Virgil, Gordon and the baby.

Then, she told of the early days of IR; how Scott had stepped into the role of hero and leader; how John had walked away from all those pro baseball scouts to follow their father into space. Then, how Jeff had vanished. How the dream would have collapsed, had it not been for Scott, John and Grandma, who'd given everyone courage and purpose, despite all the pain. Then, at the last, of the Hood's attack on Global-1. How he'd threatened to slaughter its crew, including Captain O'Bannon, whom he'd beaten on camera. Of how he'd taunted them with the sight of their father, and how he'd demanded two Birds… and two of her brothers… in return for his hostages. In spare, simple words, Kayo showed them the heroism which had caused Scott and John to hand themselves over to a man who'd promised them torture and death. Then, lying a little, she said,

"They escaped, my lords and ladies, because it's always smart to have a plan B, and pack a bit of extra insurance. They _tried_ to leave peacefully, but the Hood attacked them, and they were forced to defend themselves. As you can see from these news cam pictures, taken that day, my brothers were badly hurt… barely able to stand! It was a fight, ladies and gentlemen, and one that they only _just_ walked away from, leaning on each other. If the Hood had won, Scott and John would not be alive, right now. He'd have killed them, and shipped home their bodies, in pieces!"

Strangely, there were tears on her face. More than a few in the audience, too. Penny sniffled audibly, feeling about for a tissue.

"Please," Kayo went on, very softly. "Please see them as I do, and stop this madness. They're brave and strong and good. Whatever you think of my brothers, Chancellor Reid, they'll always be my first heroes, along with Daddy, and Uncle Lee. And… and whatever you decide about _them_ , I accept for myself, as well. I was there. You saw me in those pictures, with Scott and John. Sentence me, too."

 _"And_ me," said Lady Penelope, coming forward in cheap rubber sandals to take Kayo's hand. "I was present, as well, and a Creighton-Ward never shrinks from danger."

After that, as Uncle Lee would have put it, it was "all over, but the shouting". Unsurprisingly, Scott Tracy was acquitted by the board of all charges and his (obviously innocent) brother John, along with him. Also, pink rubber sandals became all the rage among London's fashionistas…

...And she now owed Nikorr Kyrano a favor, which was neither a safe, nor a comfortable position in which to find herself. Not at all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Titan, at the pebbled edge of Lake Endurance, in a hard methane rainstorm-_

Almost forgetting that he was on camera, Buddy reached out with a gloved hand, meaning to touch one of those giant, swaying stalks. They were spindly-tall, slick as wet plastic, and dark brown, with delicately fronded pale tops. Those swaying, feathery appendages seemed to be sweeping the yellowish sky, absorbing methane and nutrients washed down from above. But, some of the stalks were bruised in crumbling grey, seeming injured. Mere inches from touching one of the mud-worms, Buddy Pendergast drew back his hand.

"Crikey!" he stage-whispered. "Looks like some o' these Muddies 've been hurt! Must be delicate sorts, eh, Ellie?"

"Too right, Buddy!" she agreed, from behind the flat, armored camera. "Maybe best not t' risk harmin' 'em any further."

"Reckon! Back t' fossickin' up our brekkie it is, then. Let the Muddies get on with theirs, in peace, I say!"

Then, taking Ellie's gloved hand, Buddy led the way back across rippled dunes of brownish water-sand. Above them hung Saturn, partly obscured by smoggy dark clouds.

"Bit like bruise-flavoured fairy-floss, innit, Luv?" Buddy joked.

Smiling at him through her perma-glass helmet bubble, Ellie squeezed Buddy's hand.

"Puts me t' mind of our first evenin' out," she said. "That night the carnival come by, and we hit all the rides over and over, till we chundered!"

"You stuck it out like a trooper, El. Nuthin' like bondin' over a bucket, is there, eh?"

…At which both of them laughed, remembering. With light hearts, they crossed the dune field back to the site of their wrecked ship. It lay in widely scattered bits, with piles of debris frozen into a sheet of melted and re-hardened ice. Straightaway, they began to find useful supplies, from med-gear to food stuffs… but not much of either. Most of it had to be chipped out. Many supplies had broken open, or been contaminated, as indicated by their now bright-red safety tabs. In all, after three hours' hard work (all they could manage on their suits' air tanks) the explorers had succeeded in scavenging less than a month's worth.

"Well, Old Girl," said Buddy, shaking his head to clear sweat from his eyes. "Looks like short commons f'r you and me… but a rescue ship 'll be along any tick of the clock, you watch. She'll come right, in the end."

…Even if he had to lower the pod temperature and induce semi-comas. Even if he had to starve himself to feed Ellie. Aces, in the end; he knew it. For one of them, at least.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1, racing to Antarctica-_

They'd flown clear through the morning and into the afternoon, though at this time of the year, the sun shone all day, in Antarctica. Scott led the way, following the coordinates supplied him by Professor Moffat and Brains. Still, as he flew high over the clouds, crossed sixty degrees south, and entered the icy, troubled waters around Earth's southern-most continent, Scott couldn't help wondering what they would encounter.

"Dad," he said, over the rumble of engine, the howling of wind. "What if we're two weeks too early? I mean, if the power isn't emerging right _now_ , will there be anything out there to find?"

Jeff lifted his head from the scanners a moment, saying,

"That's a good question, Son. If you're interested in _my_ take on things…?"

"Always, Sir."

"We're not law enforcement, Scott. Let's go have a look-see, report back to the GDF, and warn them what's about to happen in London… then get a kill-signal sent out from Thunderbird 5, to shut down those collectors."

"Already w- working on it, Mr. T- Tracy," said Hackenbacker, who was still on the comm. "B- But a well sh- shielded bit of, ah… of malware has t- taken over the Asian energy system, and it is, ah… is adapting to all of m- my codes."

 _'John could do it,'_ nobody said out loud. Just on a whim, though, Scott hunted up the Asian Power grid IP address, and sent it… along with the nature of their problem… to Thunderbird 3. Who could tell? Maybe John or Alan would pick up in time to help out.

In the interim, Scott Tracy focused on his instruments and the flight, switching off with Dad, when he needed a break. Below them, the cloud layer grew patchy and thin. The ocean turned grey, choppy and ice-flecked, with a shrieking wind combing the white-caps and stirring up trouble. His sensors were picking up gusts of 110 miles an hour, which Thunderbird 2 rode out better than the long, slender rocket plane.

"B- Be cautious, Scott," Brains warned him, as they neared their goal. "Mount Erebus is an, ah… an active v- volcano, and p- prone to outgassing."

"Eruptions?" asked Jeff, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He was going to be very late for his GDF in-process, but hopefully they'd cut him some slack, given the circumstances.

"N- Not violent ones, no, M- Mr. Tracy. Mount Erebus experiences w- what might best be d- described as a constant low boil. Safe enough, so l- long as one, ah… one does n- not get too close."

"Define close," cut in Virgil, who did not fly a very high-altitude Bird.

"S- Stay at least a mile away, Thunderbird 2, and all should be, ah… be well."

"One mile. Got it. Thanks, Brains."

"My p- pleasure, Virgil."

They were headed for distant Ross Island, crossing part of the barren, wind-hammered continent to get there. The island actually featured three volcanoes, but only one was active; Mount Erebus, which boasted two calderas, and a seething lake of restless magma. Its gasses and smoke made a beacon that Scott could have followed backward, with a blanket over his head.

"Tough to miss," he muttered, triggering every scanner his Bird possessed. "What're we looking for, exactly, Brains? Some kind of secret hideout? An alien spacecraft needing power?"

"Anything out of, ah… of the ordinary, I would say, S- Scott. But remain wary and w- watchful, as trouble may c- come through unexpected means."

"Right. Understood."

The skies had cleared to gem-like brilliance. The low sun was very bright on all of that shimmering ice, casting spears of light in all directions; painting shadows of green, blue and violet. There were spires of black rock, too… and that towering pillar of steam.

"Thunderbird 2, you go in low, but stay away from the volcano," Scott decided. "I'll fly overhead for a look inside those calderas. Maybe someone's trying to set off a massive eruption, and another long winter."

He was already pulling up, his viewscreen filling with sky.

"On it, Scott," Virgil responded, banking down as he crossed the coastline and roared in over a rocky grey beach. "I'll look around for any signs of…"

And then, without warning, his Bird's systems shut down. The cockpit went dark and silent, as 2's batteries died and her engines cut off. Not good, because, without power, his Big Girl glided like a green concrete block.

"Uh-oh…" he said, flipping switches and restart buttons like mad. His brother's holo had disappeared, too… and nobody answered the comm.

"Thunderbird 1, from Thunderbird 2. Scott? Dad? You there? Anyone?"

The rocky, snowbound horizon tilted wildly, rushing upward. Wind screamed around his Bird like a hurricane.

"Scott, Brains… I'm going down. No power, no guidance. If you can hear me, get the crash gear ready. I'm riding her down, and it's gonna get ugly. Repeat, this is Thunderbird 2 declaring in-flight emergency. I'm going down!"


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks, as always, to Bow Echo and "Guest"... (You know who you are!)

 **10**

 _Tracy Island, in the comm centre-_

It was a very bad time to receive a message so terribly unwelcome; so unwanted. Brains was needed at the desk, managing two separate missions at once, and serving as liaison to Professor Moffat, and the GDF. To say the least, he had his hands full. Then his email alert pinged, which was highly unusual. He had very few contacts off Tracy Island; no remaining family, and _very_ few friends. Dr. Questa, Moffy and… well, no one else, really. So, rather than ignoring the ping, Brains checked his phone, and started to panic.

 _'last chance: 02.12.2065.1:47'_

Immediately, he knew who had messaged him, and guessed what about. Eight years earlier, "Brains" had been a different man, with another name and identity. He knew the name; had researched what he could of his own past… but a man who'd been brain-scraped for "persistent superstition" had no memories of anything at all prior to his sentence and correction.

Most of what he knew came from Moffy, who'd taken a few classes with him, back when he'd still been Yudhisthir Rama Singh. He knew his age (30) and that he'd been born in Delhi, orphaned at twelve, and brought up in a succession of state group homes. He'd won scholarships, attended university, and shown real promise as a scientist and inventor.

Then, someone in the department had turned him in for "superstitious aberration" (namely, being Hindu) and he hadn't refuted the charges. In fact, he'd defied them, seeking justice from the local magistrate. He'd lost, quite publicly.

After that, the trail had vanished for several months, until Citizen 2057-43-Q was released to his brand new life with a stack of orientation discs, a pep-talk and five hundred credits. There had been nowhere for him to go, and nothing legitimate for the emptied young man to do, for no one would hire a "scrapie"; too much likelihood of breakdown or relapse.

He'd burnt through the five hundred credits in that first week, just finding food, shelter and a decent interview suit. As for his new name, "Horatio Hornblower", it had been borrowed from a pre-conflict war novel. All scrapies got such names. He'd known a Phillip Marlowe, an Elizabeth Bennett and an Alan Quartermaine, briefly… until he stopped attending those worthless support group meetings, and lost contact with his "accountability partners".

Broke, rootless and confused, he'd turned his talent for invention to the service of people who didn't care about his past, because theirs was still worse. He'd begun designing and fitting illegal cybernetic upgrades, making dangerous criminals even stronger. It had paid well enough to help him survive, until he was tracked down by Professor Vanessa Moffat, who risked her career to give him a job at her particle physics lab in Asia. More than that, she'd retaught him all that he'd lost in the scrape, and snuck him a stack of his old college journals, too. In a very real sense, she'd saved his life.

Trying to break clean away from his underworld past, he'd created a new name and persona: Hiram Hackenbacker, and erased all internet contacts. Had succeeded, too: well enough that Jeff Tracy, looking for a certain kind of genius, had eventually hired him away from Moffy. Together, they'd created and launched International Rescue.

Only, now the past was back, pinging and flashing on his personal electronic device. Heart pounding, _hard,_ Brains glanced up from the desk to the ring, where Mrs. Tracy was keeping an eye on developing situations in the big, whirling comm globe. She was busy, distracted. Wouldn't notice, should he duck aside for less than a second to keep a brief, bitter rendezvous in cyberspace. Wouldn't take him long, because all that he intended to say was: _no._

Hurriedly, Brains uncovered a small, square tactile pad on the desk's surface. Part of the computer display split to reveal a fuzzy, hypnotic pattern of pixel "snow". Taking a deep breath, Brains placed his right hand, palm downward, on the sensory-laden pad, then looked deeply into the foggy, swirling pixel-storm, keeping the rendezvous coordinates firmly in mind.

…And then he was there, at the Last Chance Cyber Café, in his jet-black stealth icon. The café was an Escher-like hyperbolic Dyson sphere; finite from the outside, yet limitless from within, as everything shrank approaching its borders. It curved overhead and around, crowded with tables, icons and crackling data. A place where deals got done and transactions were made, beyond World Gov's control. The site was like a hive; packed, seething and dangerous. Time, space and identity were whatever you made of them. Only death here was real, and permanent.

Not that he had trouble finding either his 'table', or his former client. Kane sat with his legs stretched before him, a large glass of stimulant code in one hand, the other tapping rhythmically against the cyber-linked arm of his chair. He had manifested himself as a cartoonishly muscular young man with glowing tattoos, amber eyes, dark hair, and a lion's face. In the shifting light and alphanumeric rain of the site, he looked like a neon Egyptian god.

As Brains drew near, Kane cocked his head, seeming amused. He reached out and flicked a finger against Brains' icon, causing it to blur, waver and then reveal Hackenbacker's true form.

"Horatio!" he boomed, in his throbbing deep voice. "Been awhile. Hear you've been doing pretty good for yourself these days… 'Brains'."

"N- No!" snapped Hackenbacker, struggling to reform his cybernetic encryption protocol. Only, Kane wouldn't allow it. "Whatever you, ah… you w- want, the answer is _no!"_

"Want?" said Kane, affably enough. "I want an upgrade. Got a situation coming up, and I mean to be prepared. H*ll, I'll even pay you for it." With that, he tossed a strip of glittering code onto the table before Hackenbacker's icon. Brains knocked it back, although it struck the auto-waiter, rather than Kane.

"I have already s- said that I will, ah… will not agree."

He was shaking; very much afraid, but determined not to give in, or regress. He owed it to Moffy and Jeff, to be strong. Kane merely barked a short laugh, saying,

"I heard you the first time… and I'm letting you live, because you do good work, for a typical. Now, your kind can be useful… or they can be dead. I recommend useful, Horatio… especially if you want to get back to your sorry-d*mn friends in time to stop them killing themselves in Antarctica."

Suddenly worried, Brains tried to punch out, return to the real world, only he couldn't. Somehow, Kane was keeping his consciousness trapped in the cyberverse, as time ticked slowly by, outside.

"L- Let me go! I will not, ah… not help you, Kane!"

"Then pull up a chair and enjoy the show with me. Thunderbird 2 is about to crash, and I'm redirecting your comm feed… _now."_ He waved a big, negligent hand, summoning a floating screen like a very flat world gate. Through it, Brains could see the massive green cargo-lifter plunging like a stone for the icy surface of Ross Island, in agonizing slow motion.

"V- Virgil!" he shouted, his icon losing coherence as shock overwhelmed his control of the pixels. "What have you, ah… you done t- to Thunderbird 2?!"

"Nothing. South Pole isn't my territory. Yet. But if two of my problems want to solve each other, I'll take bets and sell tickets. Fifty credits says he rides her right into the ground, and the Kyranos get a sh*t-load of free IR tech."

"W- Wait!" Brains called out, nearly sobbing. Like John, Virgil Tracy was a close friend; a good heart and a kind soul. "C- Can you stop whatever they're d- doing?"

The lion mask's jaws gaped in a sudden wide yawn. Kane scratched himself and shrugged.

"Maybe. Cost you, though."

"Yes! Anything you want, K- Kane… only stop this!"

"Better," he grunted, rolling broad, tattooed shoulders. "Cooperation means you get to live, and so do your candy-ass playmates. For awhile, anyway."

Pushing that strip of glittering code back toward Brains, he said,

"Upgraded cyber-interface goggles and breath mask, by noon, tomorrow. I get my gear, you get forty-seven thousand… and your boy gets to come home in one piece… if he's any kind of pilot, that is. I can't fix stupid."

"Deal!" Brains snapped, eyes riveted to the screen, where Thunderbird 2 was inching ever closer to the volcano's frozen grey slope.

Kane nodded, then reached a big hand out and caught hold of a twisting, sparking data stream. In his grasp, it split like an unraveled rope; part remaining silver and continuing on its way, the rest bending sharply aside, and turning bright red. This crackling, weaponized data-line shot away from the cyber café, flashing from server to server, across the aether-net, until it struck Antarctica. Their system was encrypted, of course, but that meant nothing at all to the Mechanic.

"Think I'll leave them a little present, while I'm at it," he mused. "Just to let them know who they're dealing with."

"Yes, anything, Kane. Only, h- hurry!"

The big young man snorted.

"Emotional bullcrap!" he mocked, in that deep, growling voice. "It's going to be the death of you, 'Brains'… but I promise to make it quick, for old times' sake."

Then, leaning forward, eyes flashing, he clenched his fist on that pulsing red data line, and hauled back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Ross Island, plunging for the side of Mount Erebus-_

Virgil pulled back hard on the steering yoke, grunting and clenching his jaw.

"C'mon… _c'mon!"_ he pled. "Wake up, girl! Just a little power… just for a second… If I can just… get us… back over water…!"

He could ditch in the ocean, and maybe they'd _both_ survive. Couldn't abandon his big girl, though. Never had, never would. The side of the mountain took up all his viewscreen. The noise of roaring wind and shuddering airframe was like the end of the world. Like riding a falling elevator, Virgil's stomach was somewhere up near the roof of his mouth.

Then, as a scrap of muttered prayer escaped his clenched teeth, a seeming miracle happened. Some sort of crackling electronic wave passed through pilot and aircraft, both; restoring power to Thunderbird 2.

 _"YES! H*ll yeah,_ baby! Welcome back!" Virgil shouted, as everything cut back on, at once; engines, comm, instruments and force field.

"… bird 2, come in! Virgil, what's going on?!"

It was Scott, sounding hella worried.

Busy, though, convincing eight-hundred tons of hardened neutronium steel to just… please, God… turn… _left!_ She banked and yawed hard, on full impellers and lateral thrusters. First a sliver of blue, then half the windows showed sky, and still Virgil hauled, his grunt turning into a hoarse scream as Thunderbird 2's flat belly scraped loudly across the mountainside, dislodging an avalanche of rock and snow, and violently clawing her hull. Then he was clear, banking at ninety-degrees over the ocean.

"Scott! Get out of there!" he shouted. "Leave, _now!"_

It was Dad who answered him, though; cutting in with,

"Virgil! Are you alright? What happened, Son? You disappeared from comm for over ten seconds!"

The rescue pilot's heart was jerking and flopping in his chest like a landed trout. Over and over, he patted 2's instrument panel. Finally, in a very gruff voice, he said,

"Yes, Sir. We're okay… but there's some kind of energy-draining force around that island. Lost everything for awhile, there. Thought we were gonna crash. It's okay, though… we're fine, now… gonna be okay."

"Run a full systems check, Virge, and send the results to Island Base," Scott interrupted. "We're going home. Brains, get in touch with the GDF. I want this area designated a no-fly zone, you copy? Brains? Island Base, from Thunderbird 1… anyone there?"

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, departing the Sun-_

Alan turned in the pilot's seat as first John, and then Gordon, came swooping into the cabin. Both were slightly sweaty and glowing with exertion. Difference was, John was calm and graceful, moving in zero-G as though born there. Gordon glowered, and mostly stopped moving by colliding with things, and people. Pretty obvious who'd won the game. _Again._

Captain Taylor, in the next seat over, thrust a hand out at Alan, palm upward. The boy sighed, shot Gordon a deeply betrayed look, and paid up, tapping his three middle fingers against the implanted chip in Taylor's palm and muttering,

"Fine, then. Be that way. _Twenty_."

Instantly, twenty credits were transferred from Alan Tracy's personal account to Lee Taylor's. The old boot of an astronaut chuckled.

"Pleasure doin' business with you, Alvin! Yup, anytime you feel like losin' money, come see me!"

Gordon, who'd got himself halted, upside-down against the pilot's seat, said,

"You bet _against_ me, Uncle Lee?"

The older man shrugged, looking at once mischievous, embarrassed, pleased… and twenty credits richer.

"Sorry, Godfrey… family's one thing, but business is business, and Lee Cooper Taylor likes to win." He stretched in the seat, cracking his neck and bristling his mustache in a wide grin. "Tell you what, Son… day you learn to control y'r flight in space is the day I risk my credits on Godfrey Doug Tracy."

John smiled a bit, fighting a yawn for all he was worth. Sensing his brother's amusement, Gordon whirled on him, snapping,

"Shut up!"

"I didn't say anything," John protested, raising both hands, palm outward.

"You _smiled_ something!"

Which was true, but unanswerable, so John didn't try. Too tired to argue, anyhow.

"Hey, guys," Alan interrupted. "You might want to strap in and hang on. It's time to deploy the sail." The kid was all business, now; games and betting forgotten.

John attached his suit harness to the bulkhead. A bit overhead and to the rear, Gordon did the same. There were metal brackets all over the cabin, to which you could clip your harness, if drifting wasn't your thing. Once they were settled, Alan grinned and rubbed his gloved hands together.

"Let's see if those upgrades Brains put in are _really_ all that."

The Sun was behind them, now; a raging ball of superhot plasma, with plenty of push. Alan cracked his knuckles and keyed up the sail controls. He tapped in a quick code, sending a miles-long beam of sizzling energy lancing ahead of them. Next came the really cool part (at least, as far as Alan and John were concerned). With a tap to the panel, the cub astronaut accessed quantum probability and called billions… _trillions…_ of Hackenbacker's self-replicating nanostructures into sudden existence. The beam of force became a cable, just like the one that John's space elevator rode. Only, this one split at the end into multiple strands, which shot out like a giant firework, until it had blossomed into a massive, spinning " **X** ". More nanostructures were called from the quantum foam, then, to create mirror bright helio-gyro blades, made from improbable lithium.

"Whoa!" shouted Alan, truly delighted.

The blades spun like a giant propeller, struck from behind by blistering sunlight. All at once, Thunderbird 3 lunged forward like a horse released from canter to full gallop. The acceleration hurled Alan and Captain Taylor back against their seats, and strained John and Gordon bruising-tight in their harness straps.

Just like that, their speed more than doubled, with no waste of fuel. They shot past barren Mercury, careful to use the little planet's rotation as yet _another_ boost. And then they were off, blazing their way out of the warm, cozy, inner solar system. Couple of system checks showed everything holding up, and 3's ion engines just about idling.

"That was _awesome!"_ crowed Alan, craning around to high-five first Lee, and then…

"Wait… is he _asleep?"_

For John was hanging there in harness, eyes shut, breathing deeply, apparently lost to the world.

"Looks like it," Said Gordon, after a gentle poke had elicited nothing more than a grunt and a mumble, in which the words "cheeseburger" and "physics" figured prominently.

"Let him be," said Taylor, unstrapping from his seat to float free. "It's been a h*ll of a day at sea, boys."

…And soon to get a whole lot rougher.


	11. Chapter 11

Hi, again! A short one, this time. Lots going on. Fixed even more!

 **11**

 _Tracy Island, in the all at once silent, powered down comm centre-_

Grandma Tracy blinked, startled, as the big, blue comm globe just shattered to sparkling pixels and vanished.

"What the heck?" she muttered, jamming the green re-start button on Scott's favorite seat, which faced the windows. "What's goin' on?!"

…because power was out, all over the house, except for a few battery-operated emergency lights. Even Max had shut down. She turned to face the desk, where Brains was sitting, bolt upright, starring at a window of staticky "snow" which somehow hung directly in front of his spectacled face. His blank eyes were no longer brown, but glittered with pixels, themselves. Well, Mamma Ryde hadn't raised no fool.

The silver-haired woman vaulted to her feet, blue eyes narrow and hard. Five rapid strides took her to the desk, where she studied Hackenbacker's slack expression for perhaps half a second. Then she acted, pulling his glasses off, and turning the wheeled office chair to face away from the desk. Might have been a dangerous thing to do, but Mrs. Tracy had never been one for second guesses. Not until after all the shots struck home and the dust settled.

Brains convulsed in the chair, gave a short, high-pitched scream, and then stumbled to his feet. The chair shot backward, striking the desk, and all at once, power was back.

"You okay, Brains?" she asked him, patting the engineer's thin, heaving shoulder. "What happened?"

"I…" he took back his glasses, looking as anguished as she'd ever seen him. "Mrs. Tracy, there is something I…"

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 1! Grandma, Brains… what's happening? Are you under attack? Hang on, we're headed home at full burn! Help's on the way!"

"Whoa, there!" Grandma responded, forgetting all about Brains' weird fade-out, in her rush to reassure Scott. "Slow your roll, Boo! We're fine. Just had us a power outage of some kind… which probably wasn't no coincidence, come ta think of it."

Turning slightly, she called out,

"Perfesser Moffit, everything alright, down _your_ way?"

"Yes, Mrs. Tracy… other than our diverted microwave power feed, we're perfectly well. But, like Scott, I was most anxious for you and, er… and Hiram."

Her holo-image blushed prettily, and a strand of dark hair fell across her face, to be brushed impatiently back into its bun. Brains took a step toward her softly glowing image; blushing, himself.

"I am quite w- well, thank you, Moffy. There are… c- complications, but nothing I c- cannot handle."

The rest of the world might have crashed and burnt around them in the final twilight of the gods… in Lord Vishnu's awakening… but all they saw was each other. Then Jeff cleared his throat loudly, breaking the spell.

"Huh-hummm! I agree that your blackout… and Virgil's power-down… weren't coincidences, Ma. Whoever's stealing all that microwave energy doesn't want any interference. Trouble is, _we_ aren't the ones who ought to be dealing with this. It isn't a rescue scenario. Brains, contact the girls and Thunderbird 3, make sure craft and crew are all in one piece, still, and get them on comm. I'll break it to the GDF. Might as well tell you all now, as later…"

His image looked suddenly glum. Jeff inhaled sharply, started to speak, and then had to restart, waiting until Kayo and Thunderbird 3 were in the loop to say,

"Ma… everybody…. I've been reactivated by the GDF. I report to London, today. In fact, I'm already late. John knows about it, and so does Lee, but I made them promise not to tell. Thought I'd have some time for more personal goodbyes… but that's not what happened. Ma, you and Scott are still in charge, with Brains and Lee on consult. For six years, you've managed just fine without me. You'll do great, now. I won't be completely gone… just, flying a desk at HQ."

For a long, strained moment, nobody spoke. It was Alan who broke the silence at last, saying,

"But, Dad… you just came back! It's not _fair!"_

His sky-blue eyes filled with tears; a few of them spread across his freckled cheeks and nose in a thin, glistening film. Then, Captain Taylor put a hand on the boy's shoulder and gave him a little shake.

"Whyn't you go check on the coils, Al," he said kindly. "Swear I hear a funny sound, back there."

Alan nodded, unstrapped in a fast, clumsy hurry, and launched himself out of the pilot's seat. There were indeed some weird sounds, as the boy darted off for the back of his Bird… but they weren't very funny.

Gordon shot John an accusing stare, but the red-haired young astronaut was too blurry with sleep to do more than shrug miserably. Then Jeff was talking, again.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my choice… but I'm only a Bird flight away. You're welcome to visit, all of you, any time. Take care of each other, please. You are… every one of you… more important to me than I have words to express. That's it. All I had to say, and we've still got a situation to deal with. Put aside the sappy stuff, and get to work."

Only, Grandma Tracy wasn't having any. Arms folded across her chest, lips pursed in anger, she stepped toward Jeff's image and said,

"You and me 're gonna have us a little talk, Jeffery… but not now. _Now,_ we need t' find a way to stop any more of these blackouts n' power-downs. Brains, that's you n' Perfesser Moffit. Scotty, seems to me that if we can't block the power feed on one end, we can maybe jam it up, at the other. Thunderbird 3 ain't available… but someone could take the space elevator up to 5, and then use the exopod to visit them receivers and shut 'em off. Thinkin' maybe Kayo or you, f'r that one… and if somebody's really plannin' to nuke London in two week's time, maybe we oughta start workin' on some sorta evac plan. You think?"

Because there was no one like a Tracy woman for taking charge, when things got rough.

XXXXXXX

 _Mount Erebus, in the Antarctic-_

His people stood in precise ranks to both sides of the great door, standing at attention to greet him. There were not as many as he would have liked… and very few females… but the sight heartened him, anyhow. One man, his second in command, stepped forth, turned smartly, and bowed low. He was dark-haired and green-eyed, a sign of their family's blood.

"Kyrano!" he called out, his voice ringing through the vast lava tunnel. "Welcome, my lord!"

All of them bowed, at that; young and old, male and female. His people. Something like warmth seeped through him, but Nikorr Kyrano immediately squashed it. Typicals had a way of rubbing off on one, if overexposed to their weakness. Which, of course, was what had happened to the Tracys. Nikorr took warning, and controlled himself.

"Thank you," he said, making his tone indifferent, rather than pleased. Still in the business-suit costume of a wealthy, homo-typical male, he strode forward through the massed people, making his lieutenant rush to keep up. "Status report," he demanded, cutting himself off before the word 'please' could slip forth.

Without excuse or hesitation, his second said,

"There has been an incursion, Kyrano. Two International Rescue craft attempted to cross the perimeter, recently."

Nikorr glanced sideways, at that, his green eyes beginning to glow.

"Then, we have captives and tech to exploit," he said, a tough smugly.

But his second ceased walking to kneel at Nikorr's feet, bowing down till his forehead touched the polished dark floor.

"Kyrano, they escaped. Thunderbird 2 lost power crossing our perimeter, but a sudden incursion of force restarted its engines, and both craft retreated to safety. Also, that same burst of force has caused damage to Sentinel. The weapon has ceased charging, or accepting commands. I await judgment, my lord."

 _Dammit._ There was only one response to such failure. Only one method for dealing with subordinates who did not succeed in their given task. To hesitate, to show weakness, was death… as Tanusha's parents had learnt, to their cost.

Nikorr reached out with his mind and crushed the man's forebrain to pulp, accidentally learning his name… Yan… in the process. Then, he strode onward, leaving the body for somebody else to clean up. Perhaps his breathing was a bit irregular. Perhaps he blinked a few times more than necessary, but if so, the massed family never knew it. All that they saw was strength and resolute power. All he saw was a monster.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, approaching Tracy Island-_

Virgil swung her around, lining up with the runway and green, lovely home. There were a number of hull-integrity warning lights flashing, and a more worrisome landing-gear alert. Just to be on the safe side, he called in, keeping his tone placid and light.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 2. You there, Brains?"

The response was immediate.

"I am, m- my friend, and you are, ah… are cleared for final approach. W- Welcome home, Virgil."

"Thanks, Brains. Listen, uh… you may want to foam down the runway. Got a couple of landing-gear indicators flashing at me."

"T- Try to deploy them, and let me, ah… let me know the result," said Brains, sounding concerned.

Holding his breath, Virgil touched the glowing "landing gear deploy" icon, and waited to see what would happen. Starboard-side and nose gear came down like a dream. No damage, there. Port side… didn't. Aft port got stuck halfway, fore port just shuddered and ground, unable to push through the crumpled hatch. VTOLs were jammed on that side, too. Well, sh*t.

"Belly flop it is, Brains," he joked, forcing a smile. "Or else I'm putting her down in the drink, and swimming home. Port-side gear and rockets won't deploy. Must've been damaged when we scraped that volcano."

Brains' image nodded. His smile wavered, just a bit. Had a lot on his mind, evidently.

"Understood, Thunderbird 2. As there may, ah… may b- be more extensive hull damage, an ocean l- landing seems inadvisable. I am, ah… am f- foaming the runway, now. Reduce airspeed to j- just over stall, my friend, and take a few l- laps around the island."

"F-A-B, brains. Circling and reducing airspeed. Let me know when it's safe to come in."

Back at the comm centre, Hackenbacker was hitting switches like mad, raising the hangar doors and extending the runway over the ocean with nanostructures, to give Virgil a little more room. He also triggered a twin line of foam cannons, which burst from the bent cyber-palm trees and began jetting dense, white froth. To the island as a whole, the engineer called,

"All personnel, emergency r- readiness. Thunderbird 2 is, ah… is coming in hot!"

Scott and Jeff had just emerged from their launch lift. Now, they rushed to join Brains and Grandma at the desk. A quick glance told them all there was to know.

"Son," said grey-haired Colonel Tracy to Scott, "Get down there and start up one of the fireflies. I'll get into an exo-suit, in case we have to cut through any wreckage."

"Yes, Sir! Right away!" Scott shot a last, worried glance at the view screen, and then raced for the hangar access door.

Jeff next turned to face his mother.

"Know you wanted to talk, Ma, but…"

She kissed his rough cheek and shook her head.

"Go on, _get!_ Save Teddy, if the landing goes bad."

Jeff managed a smile; touched (and a little surprised) by the kiss. Looking at Brains, he said,

"Bring my son home, Brains. We'll take care of the rest."

Then he pivoted, loping after Scott. Dr. Hackenbacker breathed deeply, putting fear and worry out of his mind. Beside him, Max rolled back and forth on his treads, emitting a shrill, concerned warble.

"N- never fear, Max," said the inventor, patting his friend's hard plastic head. "All will be, ah… will be w- well. It is all j- just a cycle, after all. You must begin a f- fresh brewing of coffee for Virgil, now. Dark r- roast, with, ah… with mocha."

Max beeped a few times, and then started grinding beans inside his carapace. Soon, the rich smell of coffee filled the comm centre. By this time, the runway was twelve feet deep in iridescent white foam, sparkling like a ski slope.

"Thunderbird 2, f- from Island Base," he called out.

"Thunderbird 2. Go ahead, Island Base," replied Virgil, smiling despite the strain in his brown eyes.

"You m- may come back around, line up and, ah… and make your l- landing, Virgil. Y- Your father and brother are standing by, and M- Max has made coffee."

Virgil's smile reached his tired eyes, for a moment.

"That sounds good, Brains. Save me a cup. I'm coming in on final approach." There was almost no time left, but Virgil tapped his comm and keyed in a certain number, anyhow. It went straight to answering machine, so he left a message.

"Hey, Em… I'm, uh… I'm landing, now. Might get a little sticky, Angel. Got some landing gear issues. Just, um… just wanted… okay, I love you. Take care, Honey. See you, soon."

And then, he rang off, got his head back in the game, and said,

"Let's go home, Girl. Nice and smooth, just like we practiced."

XXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, in the cockpit, still-_

Gordon shook his sandy blond head, then reached out to unclip John's harness.

"Listen, Bro, this is no place to get any rest. Too noisy. Let's move you back down to medical."

"Mmm?" said John, sort of. Did open his eyes, a little, and tried to help with unclipping the harness. Mostly just got in the way, though. Captain Taylor was back in the pilot's seat, now, and gave them a jaunty thumbs-up.

"I got it," he said. "Take care of y'r brother. Ain't nuthin' out here but a whole lotta nuthin', till we pass Mars… then I got me a bet t' settle with Pete McCord. Calls hisself an astronaut! Goddang Navy puke, if ever I saw one! Try t' beat _my_ time through the asteroid belt, will you?"

Gordon grinned at that; briefly imagining what it must have been like when Dad, Lee and Pete were all young, hot-shot spacemen. Must've been fun, he thought, turning John around and tugging him aft. Surprisingly, his older brother put a hand out to get his attention.

"Hey, Gordon…" he said, fighting to stay awake.

"Yeah, John?"

"Race you in the pool, when we get back… 's many times as we've played volleyball… 'kay?"

Gordon halted their progress through the ship, by catching hold of a bulkhead brace. Looking at his sleep-drunk brother, he said,

"John… be serious. I'd smoke you in the water. You _know_ that." Then, getting the point, he smiled. "Want to call it a draw, in advance, Bro?"

John smiled back, blue-green eyes closing, again.

"Sounds like a plan," he mumbled, trailing off with, "beer, too…"

Gordon chuckled, reached into his own harness pouch, and pulled out a couple of celery crunch bars. Tucked them into John's pocket. Not beer or a cheeseburger, but the best he could manage out here, a million miles from home. Then, he kicked away from the bulkhead and steered them on back to medical, not even thinking about how to move. Just doing it.

"C'mon, Buddy," he said. "Let's get you to bed."

XXXXXXXX

 _Leaving London, in FAB-1-_

As for Kayo, she and Penelope were on their way back, with good news to share, and bad news to keep for just a little while longer. There was a storm brewing, that might mean the end of all that mattered to Penny and Kayo, both.


	12. Chapter 12

Another short one, owing to lots of travel, today. Thanks Echo, Whirlgirl and "Guest", for reading and reviewing. They're not mine, but I love them anyway. :)

 **12**

 _Tracy Island, coming in hot-_

Virgil lined up with that glistening, white-foamed runway, and slowly began to descend. Through yoke, foot-pedals and viewscreen, he could feel his Bird laboring; felt unusual drag from her torn belly and battered port wing. Had to fight the urge to fire his malfunctioning VTOL rockets, which would only have flipped her right over. The ocean grew closer beneath him, until he could see his Bird's shadow gliding across the lacy green breakers. And there, so close that he could feel safety and welcome dangling ahead like a lure, was home.

Watching the altimeter with one eye, he gauged his descent with the other. Saw a miraculous fifty extra feet of runway extending over the sunlit ocean and muttered,

"Brains, I could kiss you…"

His breathing was controlled, his heartbeat steady, if rapid, but all he could think about was his girl; how she was struggling to make it those last few hundred yards to safety. Virgil had no ejection seat, but he wouldn't have used it, if he had. He'd see her through this, right to the end.

1000 feet… 800… 500… and then he flared up, raising the cargo-lifter's broad nose to kill a little more airspeed before touching down. The tail section hit hard, dragged through a fountaining ocean of foam. Then the rest of her struck and slid; bouncing upward once with the booming shriek of stressed metal. She hit again, sliding forward and beginning to fish-tail through all that deep, white foam.

The damaged port wing caught on something, and Thunderbird 2 started spinning. One of the VTOL rockets tore, spilling fuel like heart's blood as she careened off the runway and onto hard, stony ground. Sparks flared, and fire erupted. Alarms blared through the smoky cockpit. The noise was like an earthquake and a giant coin-sorting machine, combined. He was flung about in his seat straps until something struck him, and then the world went utterly silent and dark.

Meanwhile, Scott had roared out of the hangar in one of the Fireflies, pushing the tracked, bladed vehicle as fast as she would go. Driving like a maniac, he plowed through the foam and off the runway, to where Thunderbird 2 lay cracked and smoldering at the end of a long, ragged gash in the ground.

"Hang on, Virge… we're coming!" Scott shouted aloud. Dad raced along beside him in a powered green exo-suit, leaving deep footprints in the lava-rock surface. The wreck was a bad one. Even in the Firefly's sealed cab, Scott caught the reek of spilt fuel and billowing smoke.

Wanted… desperately _needed_ … to get there faster, but she'd slid so _far!_ About a dozen small brush fires had started, despite the foam. Scott powered right past the burning foliage and crushed palm trunks, breaking up obstacles with Firefly's big, neutronium-steel blade. Then they were there, at the tilted, sparking mess that was Thunderbird 2.

The emergency cockpit access hatch, marked "RESCUE" in red, was canted almost out of sight, and terribly close to that burning VTOL rocket. Scott triggered Firefly's rear-mounted water and foam cannons, aiming a long stream of flame-retardant fluid at the torn, blazing engine. Beside him, Jeff shouted through his helmet comm,

"Son, lift that blade higher!"

Scott nodded and pulled a lever on his instrument panel, raising the steel alloy blade almost into his water jet. Using the exo-suit's power, Colonel Tracy took hold of the blade with metal-cased fingers and swung himself up. The suit was new tech, for him, but he'd always exceled at on the job training.

"Get closer!" he yelled, over the creak of settling metal, the hissing pop of damaged wiring, and growing flame-roar.

"Yes, Sir!"

Scott gunned Firefly's engine, completely ignoring her danger/ proximity lights. Jeff, braced on the dozer blade, gauged his distance, took a deep breath, and leapt. The exo-suit's mighty muscles propelled him up through the air and onto the hull, right beside the Bird's charred, peeling " **2** ". Digging in with metal fingers and boot grapples, Jeff clung like a fly.

"Keep the fire down!" he called, starting to climb. "I'm going in after him!"

"Yes, Sir! Be careful!"

Scott kept himself from going crazy by focusing on the job at hand: stop the fire, keep Thunderbird 2's rockets from exploding, save Virgil. He swept the water stream back and forth, concentrating on the worst of those fuel spills, which glowed bright, searing red in his heads-up display.

Above him, Jeff clambered up the side of 2's hull, one hand- and foothold at a time. His goal, the rescue access hatch, was maybe thirty feet away, over the crumpled port wing and burning VTOL rocket. Gasping, grunting, kicking and clawing, he got there. Nearly knocked himself unconscious, once, putting out a fire on his own shoulder, but managed to shake the stars out of his head, and keep moving. Reaching the hatch, he dispensed with formalities and just ripped the thing loose in a shower of popping rivets and shredded metal. Flung it away like a frisbee and then leapt inside.

The deck was tilted at nearly forty degrees, the short passage filled with smoke, and slick with sprinkler fluid.

"Virgil!" Jeff shouted, using the helmet to amplify his voice. "Hang on, Son! I'm coming!"

He heard faint coughing, and lunged forward, clinging to the braces; his feet slipping and scrabbling in slippery foam. Water blasted through the torn hatchway in torrents, nearly tearing him loose of the bulkhead.

"Scott! Less water!" he growled, eyes locked on the cockpit's emergency hatch, only ten short feet away. A silhouette was just visible amid the smoke and sprinkler streams. Big, slightly hunched over, carrying something. Virgil.

"Here… right here, Dad!"

Jeff unlocked his exo-suit's tether and unspooled a few inches to clip it onto a bulkhead brace. Then he threw caution away like old socks, and plunged downslope, after his injured son.

Surfing the tilted deck with one hand on the tether lock, Jeff reached his boy, locking the tether just as their hands clasped. Virgil had a big dark bruise on his forehead and a bloodied left eye. One arm was clutched tightly around himself, holding some sort of plastic bag. The other had been pulling him slowly along the bulkhead, one pained, grunting step at a time. It was this arm that Jeff seized, shouting,

"Gotcha!"

Then he reversed feed on the tether… or tried to. Actually, hit the wrong button, and sent them plunging a few feet into the cockpit, but, hey… new tech, old colonel. He got it right, eventually, and let the reel's powerful little motor do most of the work. Couldn't think of anything to say besides,

"Hey, Son. How are you?"

To which Virgil, coughing and wincing, replied,

"Fine, Sir. Thanks for asking."

Then, like a bad first date, they were out of stuff to talk about. The straining tether reel hauled them slowly forward, drawing them as far as the clip he'd planted. Moving fast, Jeff got a mechanized arm around Virgil, unclipped his tether, and grunted,

"Hold tight, Son… we're jumping for it. One… two… _three!"_

And then Jeff sprang for daylight, triggering the full might of those armored legs, and denting the passage.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Titan, at the stranded emergency pod-_

They'd gotten back in one piece with their tucker and swag, loading what they could in the pod, and stacking the rest outside in the dim, reeking cold. There would be no nightfall that year on this side of Titan, so that was one less concern. The pod's solar collectors weren't receiving _much_ light from the distant Sun, but every little bit meant that much more warmth, filtered air and recycled water. A few weeks longer to live. He had a plan B, did Buddy… one that he'd not bring forth unless things went very far south, indeed. He loved Ellie more than his own life, was the point, and he'd do anything at all to buy her a chance at survival.

As his wife sealed the hatch and hit "cabin refresh" to top it back up with breathable air, Buddy lifted his faceplate and made a last, cheerful comment for the camera.

"Whoo-eee! Smells like a dunny, in here! Fresh, ripe methane, straight from the source! Right-O! Back inside, and safe as houses, with tucker to spare! Don't touch that comm settin', Mate! Next up, fine dinin' out here in Bourke's Arse, Titan!" Winking broadly, he added, "We'll see what the little lady c'n come up with, usin' nuthin' but survival packs! A real lark, eh, Ellie?"

She'd removed her own helmet by then, laughed, and threw his spare red beanie, nailing Buddy right on the face. Seemed like a good place to stop recording, so he switched off the camera and snatched up his second-best sacred hat. Then he commenced getting out of that stained, smelly space suit. A real chore in quarters as tight as these. It was a grunting, slow-motion ballet for two, in half the space of a walk-in closet.

"Like our first flat, innit, Luv?" he joked, adding, "Remember I said there weren't no chocolate bikkies in the wreckage, El?"

Sighing, Ellie nodded.

"No worries, Buddy. Choco's bad f'r my girlish figure, after all. Don't want t' be gettin' so fat, I can't squeeze into this ruddy spacesuit… Wait, why the grin? Buddie, you dag! Hand it over!"

For he was dangling a packet of (very cold) chocolate biscuits over her blonde head, and grinning like a shot fox.

"Give us a kiss, first… _mwah!_ There you go. Don't I always come through f'r you, El?" A bit anxiously, at the end, there.

"Always," she agreed, breaking off half a precious chocolate biscuit to share with her husband. He cut _that_ in half, then half, again, returning the rest to Ellie.

"A taste is as good as a meal, I always say! Besides… don't want t' spoil me appetite f'r this here vegemite, n' whatever else you magick up out of our new supplies."

He sat down on the pod's one, creaking seat, patting his lap for Ellie to settle down, too. Smiling, she snuggled in against him, wrapping one arm around his neck and placing the other hand softly against his chest.

"Mmm… brekkie might have to wait, Bud. Pure wrung out, I am."

"S' alright, Luv. I've got me spoonful o' vegemite, and a pretty lass on me lap. What more could I ask for, besides a schooner of the good stuff?"

Eyes closed, Ellie smiled. Then, in just a whisper, she said,

"Buddy… whatever arse-wit plan you've got t' save me by starvin' y'rself or sneakin' off while I'm asleep… it won't work. Anythin' happens to you, I'm next, understood? Together, or not at all. Bottom line, Mate."

His breath caught, and a guilty look crossed his plain, friendly face.

"Reckon," he said, whilst thinking, _'Not if I slap a stasis disk on you, first, Luv… then it's one last walkabout f'r Yours Truly, and you're safe inside, till help arrives.'_ But he didn't say so out loud. Just hugged her harder, feeling like a very fortunate man, indeed.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, in another, less corpse-filled hostel room-_

He found the situation extremely diverting, following along on their decrypted comm, as Thunderbird 2 hit the dirt and then started to burn.

"That's fifty credits he owes me," the Mechanic muttered, though 'Brains' hadn't actually agreed to the bet; the little man was a Typical, and nobody cared what _they_ wanted. At best, they were part of the scenery; at worst, annoying vermin. Sometimes prey. Horatio would do as he was told, and thank his tiny gods that he hadn't been killed, yet. So, fifty credits were soon deducted from the engineer's pay, because… who could stop him?

The Tracys, now… they still had the Hunter AI, which he very much needed, along with Sentinel, if his plans were to finally succeed. And that meant he had to be patient a little while longer, not interfering with them until Thunderbird 3 returned with _his_ battle computer. Not ideal, but he could take it out on them, double, once he'd got what he wanted. Once the Earth had been purged, and _he_ was on top of the pile.

It was as he was thinking these things, that the Mechanic received a message, himself; directly from Scotland. Directly from 'home'. Slowly, he shook his tattooed head. No. Not ready, yet.

Standing up so fast that he sent his chair crashing and bouncing to the floor, Kane began collecting his few personals. Stuffing a camo knapsack with foodstuffs, battery packs, weapons and the odd holo, the Mechanic touched a porn-laden video wall, erasing his record and bill. Then he left the building, vanishing out on the street amid glaring neon lights, toxic rain and huge, seething crowds.

 _'Come get me,'_ he challenged the head of his family. _'Cause I'm sure as h*ll not coming to_ _you_ _.'_


	13. Chapter 13

Sorry so late. Life has a way of barging in, y'know? Thanks and hugs to Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Akimakel and "Guest" for reading and reviewing. Your comments and insights help me to improve, and I appreciate your help. Speaking of which, a couple of months back, Teobi gave me a cool idea which I have at last been able to use here.

 **13**

 _Tracy Island, the crash site-_

Jeff's blazing mechanical leap took him up out of Thunderbird 2 and onto first her threshold, then the scorched, peeling wing. He landed with a ringing clash, and stumbled, nearly losing his balance. Had to hop a few times before he got the exo-suit back under control, trying hard not to tumble over the side. Virgil had lost consciousness, meanwhile; shock or concussion, Jeff figured. Still alive, though, thank God. Now, to get him some help.

As the colonel was yet peering through clouds of smoke and spray for a safe place to jump, Virgil's wrist comm began beeping and flashing with wild, non-stop intensity. The noise drove Jeff to distraction, so he simply mashed the wrist comm's glowing 'receive' button, snarled, "Busy! Go away!" and then ripped the thing from his son's wrist and hurled it as far as he could. It sparkled in hazy sunlight, briefly, and then dropped out of sight like a shrieking stone. Problem solved.

Jeff was unaccustomed to exo-suit strength, so his reflexes were still those of a very athletic older man, with fairly human vulnerabilities. The drop from Thunderbird 2 looked pretty high to him, especially with an unconscious victim slung over one shoulder. He hesitated a bit longer than Scott or Virgil would have, then leapt from the battered wing to a projecting outcrop of lava rock. The exo-suit absorbed most of the shock, and this time, he recovered his balance better.

Was just congratulating himself, when Scott shouted,

"Dad, _move!_ The VTOL's going to…"

Reacted without thinking, holding tight to Virgil and that d*mn plastic bag as he leapt, yet again. An intense flash of heat and light from behind him preceded what sounded like a ferocious volcanic eruption. Smelt something burning, hoped it wasn't himself, or Virgil. Landed rough in a pile of smoldering, broken palm trees. That was a real mess, because there was no stable surface on which to gain footing. The pile shifted and crumbled beneath him in a cloud of black, drifting ash and glowing red motes. Tried to cushion Virgil as well as he could, and not fall on top of the already injured pilot. Scott roared over, using the last of Firefly's water reserve to drench that heap of burning palm trunks and family members.

"Dad… Virge!"

Then, a storm of shattered wood and debris exploded from the pile, as Jeff Tracy began punching his way free, one-armed. Scott leapt out of Firefly's cabin, began using his plasma cutter to dissect the larger palm trunks, making a faster way out. About the same time, what was left of Thunderbird 2's forward VTOL rocket came shrieking down out of the sky and crashed to the ground with a tremendous, hollow _**BOOM**_. Gouged quite a crater; fifteen, maybe twenty feet away.

Scott blinked. Looked upward for more surprises. Saw nothing but smoke. When Jeff battled his way clear of the wood heap, still carrying Virgil and the shopping bag, Scott hooked a thumb over one shoulder at the giant, crushed metal object and said,

"The rocket blew."

Jeff nodded, handed Virgil over, then started to laugh, saying,

"Yeah. I noticed, Son. Get your brother loaded up in Firefly, and take him back to the infirmary. I'm, uh… going to go change clothes and head out for London. Too old for this sh*t, anymore. All yours, Scott."

Behind them, a storm of repurposed mechas had already descended on Thunderbird 2 like ants on a dead lizard; stripping, repairing, rebuilding. Lord willing and the creek don't rise, she'd be right again in less than a week.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Union Jack_ _, in the commander's cabin, some hours later-_

Emma sat at her desk, staring blindly at the unresponsive comm. She'd been in conference with the ship's officers when he'd called her up… just to flirt, she'd thought. Then, she'd heard his message.

 _"Hey, Em… I'm, uh… I'm landing, now. Might be a little sticky, Angel. Got some landing gear issues. Just, um… Just wanted… Okay, I love you. Take care, Honey. See you, soon."_

Immediately, and repeatedly, she'd tried calling him back. No response, except once, when a man's voice had shouted, _"Busy! Go away!"_ amid a lot of roaring and thumping sounds. Since then, nothing. He'd had a mission to perform, Emma knew. Had it somehow gone wrong?

Something deep inside of her clenched to a cold, frightened knot. On the outside, however, Kraft was as calm as a marble statue. Panic solved nothing… but neither did repeating the same futile gesture, again and again.

Coming to a sudden decision, she keyed up a certain world-famous public emergency channel, and issued her ultimatum.

"Okay, I need International Rescue, right the h*ll _now._ Specifically, Sneaky Pete. Yeah, this means _you,_ Adonis. I know you can hear me. Pick up the d*mn phone."

A moment passed. Then her cabin viewscreen flashed, changing images from Union Jack's bridge, to the beeping, flashing cockpit of Thunderbird 3. John Tracy hovered before a comm pickup, looking distant, icy and very beautiful.

"Good evening, Captain. How can I help you?"

"Cap… you _know_ about that?" she blurted. Then, at his cocked eyebrow and faint half-smile, "Never mind… _Lieutenant._ Of course, you know. Not important. I need to find out what's happened to Virgil. He called me while I was in conference. I… didn't pick up."

She blinked a few times. _Not_ tearing up, dammit. _Not_ crying.

"Then I got his message, and tried calling back. No response. So, I figured I'd go straight to you. What's going on? Is he okay? Did… was there a crash?"

And then, as the woman in her pushed forward, once more,

"If he's angry that I didn't respond right away, I get that. I mean, if he'd rather I didn't bother him anymore…"

John sighed.

"Relationships, again. Right… Listen, _Ma'am:_ Virgil put off a mission, to visit your ship, then took the time to call you in the middle of crashing his Bird. I'd say he's pretty involved."

At that point, someone off camera growled,

"Move over, youngster!"

…and shoved John aside.

"Evenin', Captain. Don't pay no mind ta Jason, over there. _I'll_ set ya straight. Vic's in the infirmary. His Bird's bein' repaired. Had a rough landin', is all. You c'n start breathin', again. As far as the rest goes… Well, I hung my heart up and put 'er away near seventeen years ago… but I recently pulled the fool thing back out, again, so I figure I got ground ta speak from, here. Short and simple: Vic's in love. Reason he ain't called you back's cause his comm got lost, and he can't see straight enough ta punch in y'r number. I've known that muscle-head lug all his life. H*ll, I diapered his ass a few times, while I was in there pitchin' f'r Jeff… and I'm tellin' you, he's got it, bad."

Then, glancing impatiently over at John, he added,

"Just like _this_ fool, f'r that orbital space captain friend a' yours. (Needs ta go someplace more 'n low orbit, she wants to call herself a _real_ astronaut.) But Jason's tied up in knots over _her_ , just like Vic is, for you… Only, he ain't figgered it out, yet. Some folks is smart in the brain, and dumber 'n a fresh pile of sh*t, everywhere else."

Emma bit her lip to keep from grinning at the seamed and wind-tanned old spaceman.

"I see. Thank you, Captain Taylor. Thank you very much for clearing the air for me. I appreciate your honesty and, er… perspective."

Taylor chuckled, his blue-grey eyes narrowing amid their web-work of smile lines.

"You c'n call me Lee, if you want to. You're family, now… or will be, soon, if Vic's got as much sense as I think he does. Jase, here's more of what you'd call a 'long-term project'. A fixer-upper, know what I mean? But you c'n tell your friend from me, he thinks th' world of her."

Captain Kraft might have said something in response, but John didn't hear it. He was too busy considering Taylor's surprising comments. _Was_ he in love with O'Bannon? She certainly mattered a great deal… but love was something else, entirely. Something serious. Families loved you, because they had no choice; genetic imperative, and all that. Crowds loved you, too… so long as you kept on pitching no-hitters. But stop throwing strikes, and all of a sudden it went from marriage proposals to death threats and hate mail. John Tracy had reason to know. A crowd's mood could swing on a single bad inning. H*ll, a single bad _pitch…_ But O'Bannon was neither family, nor crowd. Much more than a friend, though. More like Eos, with extra benefits. Did that equal love?

Lee Taylor was much less reflective. He _knew_ how he felt and what he wanted, dammit, and he didn't have time to dither. Soon as he got back from Titan and got himself a ring, he intended asking Sally Tracy to marry him... but there were other matters to attend to, here and now. Once he'd got Kraft off the comm, he elbowed John in the ribs, sending them both soaring in different directions. Had to catch themselves as best they could on bulkheads and cabin furniture.

"Be flyin' past Mars in twenty hours, ship's time. Then it's the asteroid belt. Ya ready ta dodge some rocks with me, Jase?"

The older man rubbed his hands together, looking downright cheery.

"We're not blasting them?" John asked, surprised.

"Nope. Takes too long, and adds an ass-load o' debris to our flight path. Them explorers need savin'… and I got me a record ta claim back. Trick is travelin' fast n' loose, so blastin' ain't ever required. Need a good spotter, though. Interested?"

"Why not just break the plane and go above them?" John suggested, pulling himself back down into the copilot's seat.

But Lee shook his head, no; the light of competition and challenge flaring hot in those blue-grey eyes.

"Lose at least three days that way, Jase. The ecliptic ain't no thin little disk. Besides, sometimes, ya gotta seize the moment and take a chance. Ain't scared, are ya?"

"Scared of what?" said Alan, coming forward after an hour spent usefully punching supply crates. He'd been very upset by Dad's news.

John glanced at Captain Taylor, whose face had gone suddenly very still. Obviously, he did _not_ want the new flight plan discussed in committee.

"To… tell… O'Bannon that… maybe I love her?"

Alan snorted, switching moods in that mercurial teen-aged way of his.

"Dude, I'm not a chick, or anything, but you _gotta_ work on your delivery! You sound like you want to play chess, or something. I think they like, y'know… romance, and junk. Or, whatever it is Gordon does that seriously _never fails._ You could ask him," Alan suggested brightly. "Bet he'd tell you his secrets, if you stop all the time kicking his butt at volleyball."

John grunted, shaking his head.

"That's over, now. In light of, um… _seven_ future swim meets, the series is a draw, and we're splitting the pennant."

 _'How did this conversation even_ _start_ _?'_ he thought, rather grumpily. Then, John caught Lee's eye, and remembered: _'Oh, yeah… dumbass, dangerous plan to rip through the asteroid field in record time, reaching the Pendergasts maybe three critical days sooner… and defending Taylor's speed record.'_

Shot down, again, Alan huffed a sigh. He hung there for a moment in mid-cabin, turned sort of sideways relative to John and Lee. Then, he brightened up and said,

"Okay, I know! We'll practice, right here! Pretend I'm Captain O'Bannon, and you tell me how you feel."

Batting his sky-blue eyes to flutter pale lashes, Alan smirked in what he supposed was a charming, girlish manner, and squealed,

"Oooh! Helloooo, John! What a _pleasant_ surprise! You're looking very… smart and stuff, today!"

 _"Okay,_ no!" the astronaut snapped at his brother, while Lee roared in the background. "The only thing you're doing is relieving Captain Taylor at pilot. Then, it's quiet time, for the next four hours. Not… a… Godd*mn… _word._ Understand me?"

…Anyway, Alan looked nothing like Ridley. Didn't sound like her, either.

"Dang, Bro… _chill!_ Just trying to rescue a brother in need. Fine. I'll let you screw up with your woman, in peace! Have fun in the unemployed boyfriends line."

But then Taylor broke in, wiping the tear-film off of his face with the bottom of his blue Space Corps tee-shirt.

"Relax, you two. Down, I said! D*mn, I've missed hangin' out with you boys. Seriously, I couldn't make this stuff up… But listen, Jase: I'm good f'r another few hours up here, and you're still runnin' a serious sleep debt. Whyn't ya go on back and… uh… practice y'r big declaration, or somethin'. Me an' Alvin 'll hold the fort till… make it 17:30, ship's time. Go on… take a break, Son."

The red-haired young astronaut considered. Gordon was still in the hold, loudly binge-watching _'Into the Unknown with Buddy and Ellie'._ John was tired of medical, and of not having an open view into space. Well, he supposed, there was always the airlock and tether. Again. Three hours spent (mostly) alone was too good a deal to pass up. And maybe he _ought_ to call Ridley, after… y'know… practicing, first.

Nodding, John unstrapped and then pushed himself up and out of the copilot's seat. Reoriented with a graceful midair roll, and then soared on out of the cockpit, feeling like he'd broken free of social-interaction jail.

XXXXXXXX

 _FAB-1, speeding high over the South Pacific-_

On the last leg of their journey home, Kayo had broken down and begun answering Penny's questions about her London 'suspect'.

"Who was he," the blonde young aristocrat demanded to know, "and how, precisely, did he manage to evade you?"

A very good question, as Kayo was infamous for never losing the scent, nor giving up on a chase. Had she not been trapped in the back seat of a flying limo for hours on end with Lady Penelope, Kayo might have found a way to duck the conversation… but this high up, there could be no retreat. Squirming a bit on the beige leather seat, she cuddled Sherbert and pretended to study his lovely jeweled collar.

"Kayo," prodded her friend. "It is _most_ unlike you to be so reticent about an encounter. Clearly, something of note has occurred, and I should very much like to learn _what."_

The privacy shield was up, effectively blocking their conversation from remote listening posts. Not even Parker could hear them. The only ambient sounds were the engine's soft purr, and a faint rushing wind noise.

Kayo cleared her throat. Slowly, her big green eyes lifted from Bertie's squashed, sleepy face to the window's glowing, red-golden view.

"I… may have made a mistake, Penny," she admitted reluctantly.

Penelope tilted her head, her gaze never leaving Kayo's profile.

"How so?" she asked, keeping her tone sympathetic, rather than hectoring.

"You see… back at the plaza, I felt something… _touch_ me. My thoughts, I mean."

Penny nodded, leaning forward, a bit.

"Yes, I recall that you said someone nearby was in possession of a quite powerful… and illegal… brain scanner. You were _most_ determined to apprehend the fellow. Left me to my own devices with the council, over him."

Kayo bit her lip.

"I did think he was using a scanner, at first," she agreed. "So, I followed his trail out of the plaza and into New Town… which is where I lost my shoes, by the way. They were too hard to run in."

She had all of Penny's attention, at that point. Bertie had by now flopped down on her lap with his fat little tummy exposed; short legs pedaling the air as he dreamt.

"Right. So, I pursued the suspect into the back of an old gift shop…"

"No one else present, I hope and suppose?" Penny enquired, delicately raising a slim golden eyebrow.

"None I could see," Kayo assured her. "Wouldn't have risked civilian lives by chasing him down in public… except I thought that he was using some sort of powered psionic device to control the World Council, so I had to nail him, _fast."_

Penelope nodded once more, saying,

"Obviously, direct action was required on your part. Perfectly comprehensible. Do go on, then. What happened once you'd cornered your miscreant?"

To her complete and utter horror, Kayo actually blushed. She could feel herself growing hot. Feel her palms beginning to sweat.

"I… well… we argued, and, erm… we fought, rather."

This time, young Lady Creighton-Ward raised _both_ eyebrows.

"Rather?" Resting her chin against one lightly clenched fist, elbow on armrest, Penny said, "This grows intriguing. Can you _describe_ our wielder of illegal weaponry?"

"Not… very interesting. _Ugly. Old._ Not at all young and attractive and powerful. _Not_ able to land a blow, and then throw me across the room without breaking a sweat."

"Ah. I see," Penelope said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Then, shifting position, she reached into the limousine's padded "special supplies" cabinet for a crystal decanter and twin shot glasses. Pouring two stiff drinks, Penny handed one over, clinked glasses with her young friend and said,

"Cheers. Drink up, there's a good girl. Now, back to our tale. This ugly, old, weak and utterly uninteresting… dark haired…? Yes, he would be. Swarthy men are _so_ exciting, don't you think? At any rate, you fought this pathetic weakling and… presumably… disarmed him?"

Kayo rolled the glass back and forth in the fingers of her left hand, watching it sparkle and glint in the last warm rays of the sun. Almost, it drowned out those glowing coordinates.

"Well… that's just it, Penny. He wasn't _using_ a device, legal or otherwise. He was using his own mind powers, somehow. There was no way to disarm him, short of… I dunno… a crowbar lobotomy, or some such."

Penelope's lips pursed. She considered pouring them both another drink, then decided against it. Scott liked meeting her here, in the back of FAB-1, and she didn't wish to run short of 'the good stuff'.

"Hmmm… there have been rumors since before the great conflict, of specially-bred and cloned soldiers, some of whom were reputed to possess an innate gift for telepathy, cybermancy, tremendous strength, and such like… but it has never been fashionable to believe in them; not among the smart set, at any rate. 'The people' will cling to their myths, however. Poor dears."

Kayo shrugged and set down her glass, carefully placing it in the cupholder of her leather armrest, without disturbing Bertie.

"Maybe it's time to start believing in faerie tales, Penny. I've met one. Nikorr is… well, he's…"

"Nikorr?" Penelope repeated, pronouncing it 'knee-core' instead of 'Neeh- _kohr'_ , with the slight, almost purr at the end that he'd used, and the hard mental push that went along with it.

"Close enough," Kayo winced. It wasn't; not at all. No wonder he didn't like hearing his name spoken aloud by 'typicals'. "Let's just say "N" from now on, okay? So… he's obviously more than just human, and he's, um… well… a Kyrano. Says he's my cousin."

"Oh, dear. Poor duck, you simply _cannot_ seem to avoid tumbling hard for family members, can you? Right. So, our repulsive, aged, feeble and powerless Kyrano… (Great heavens! _Who_ can have brought themselves to mate with the Hood? Perhaps he had hair, in his youth…) So, 'N' could not be disarmed. What happened, then? Shook hands and parted amicably? Clearly, he released the World Council, or Our Scott would be headed to grand court, about now."

Kayo shook her head, looking downward. So hard to discuss… but Penny was her best friend, besides Rayna. The cognac helped, too.

"He released them because I agreed to come to the family stronghold in a month and… and he wants Scott and John to come, too. Because, by defeating the Hood… _his_ uncle, too, I guess… by smacking him down so publicly, they made him a failure to the other Kyranos. So… now the Hood has to die, and they want to put my brothers on trial for it."

Penny's delicate, softly arched brows were almost into her hairline, now; her bright blue eyes very wide.

"Kayo, dear… _please_ tell me… you surely did not _agree_ to this ludicrous demand?"

Then, when all that the other girl did was gaze down at Bertie, and blush,

"Merciful heavens, you _did!_ Oh, Kayo, _why?_ "

And, after another protracted silence,

"Wait… Hang on a tick! He controlled you, didn't he? You hadn't a choice! Well, such promises have no meaning, as they were made under duress!"

A triumphant light gleamed from Penelope's sapphire eyes. Her fine nostrils flared slightly.

"Well, 'N' had best look to himself, because a Creighton-Ward…"

All of a sudden, Kayo looked up again and concentrated fiercely, recalling the exact set and feel of Nikorr's mind, when he'd touched hers. Penny's words changed in mid-sentence to,

"…is an arrogant prig who ought to spend some time on the ranch, or harvesting gen-mod wheat with a lot of sweaty big brothers!"

Only, the lovely noblewoman wasn't even aware that she'd said anything out of the ordinary. Did not realize that she'd just been controlled. All at once very ashamed, Tanusha let her go. Reaching out physically, she touched Penelope's hand.

"Please don't say anything, Penny. I'll tell my family what happened… what _he_ wants in return for releasing the Council… when the time is right. Just, it's all rather raw, still, and I need time to think. Please? Not even… God, _especially_ not Scott! He'd go nuts, want to head down there, _now."_

Penelope snorted like an angry thoroughbred filly.

"No, indeed, he shall not. Not alone, at any rate. If any such trial takes place, I shall be there, as well; representing World Gov and taking a hand, should our Scott or our John require assistance… Which, poor dears, seems remarkably likely."

She threw herself back against the seat, huffing forth a put-upon sigh.

"Men! If they weren't so terribly exciting, we'd be well rid of their foolishness. No end to their capers and posturing…"

Kayo giggled. Nothing had actually been settled, or solved; yet she somehow felt very much better. By this time, it was entirely dark outside. FAB-1's red and green running lights made brief, blinking glows in the clouds over Tracy Island. They were starting to descend. Parker's voice came over the comm, then, saying,

"Beggin' y'r Ladyship's pardon, _h_ and Miss Kayo's… but we're on final _h_ approach, _h_ and safety belts 're _h_ advised."

Penelope straightened. Nodding graciously, she said,

"Yes, Parker. Thank you. Please have the house mechs draw me a hot bath, as I shall wish to retire and freshen up, before meeting with the family. And, _do_ bring us in over Thunderbird 2, if you would. I should like to survey the damage."

"Right you are, Milady. _H_ alterin' course a bit… _h_ it's rainin' down below, 'owever, so's you may not be seein' very much."

Turning gracefully to look out of her window, Penelope remarked,

"No matter, Parker. We shall do our best. Proceed as directed, if you please."

"Yes, Milady."

And then they cut down through the clouds, which converted from fine mist to droplets on the windows, to hard, pelting rain, once they'd passed through that rolling grey vapor. Winds picked up, too, but Penny and Kayo got a good, close look at poor Thunderbird 2, anyhow. Parker flew in low and slow over the giant cargo-lifter, which was simply black with seething repair-mechs.

"Wait," said Kayo, pressing both hands and her nose to the perma-glass window. "Aren't those… Those are the mechs that attacked Tracy Island, while we were up in Scotland!"

"So it would appear," murmured Penelope. "It seems that Brains has discovered a means to reprogram and utilize the vile, wee beasties."

Kayo scowled, catching the reflection of her own narrowed green eyes in a sudden flash of bright lightning. Using an enemy's captured tech for critical repairs? Not good. Fast and expedient, maybe. Safe, not at all. As her breath fogged the window glass in rapid small puffs, kayo silently promised to visit a certain Dr. Hackenbacker, who officially had some explaining to do.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, down in the lab-_

On the bright side, his work space was once more his own; all of it. No more 'guests' and patients sleeping, eating, healing, and putting their boots up on all of that fragile equipment. He and Max had space to retreat and work and think. On the other, not so bright side, he had a genuine problem.

Kane expected his order to be completed, post-haste. Had paid in advance (less fifty credits) providing an address in downtown Jakarta, Indonesia, for delivery. The product was completed and ready to go, because in the complex moral calculus of his former profession, the Mechanic had delivered, by saving Virgil from those power thieves on Ross Island… and that meant that _he_ must ante up, as promised.

Only… he wasn't a desperate scrapie, anymore. He was an integral part of International Rescue, and anything that he did to assist the Mechanic could potentially be turned against his new team; the only real family he had.

Of course, Kane was trusting _him_ , as well. Trusting Brains not to give in to impulse and bug or sabotage equipment which was about to become a part of the cyborg's mind and body.

So… now what? If only he'd had more to fall back on than eight years of work, and a few precious scraps of Hindu philosophy. But the only real memory he had (besides a whiff of his mother's cooking and a fragment of hummed song) wasn't very useful. In it, he was strolling along a flagstone path, on campus. (He was certain of that.) The sky was a beautiful, clear bright blue. Hoopoes fluttered and called in the greenery. He was holding someone's hand. Someone very wonderful. He was just about to turn toward the hand's owner and ask a question, and then… it ended, frozen like a movie that wouldn't stop buffering. And that was all that he had. His only memory of 'before'.

Had it been Moffy? Had he been about to ask for her hand in marriage? There was no way to tell. Not anymore. Sighing, Brains clutched those cyber goggles as though they were a well-loved hand. There had to be a way. There had to…

"Hullo, Brains," said Kayo, emerging from shadow. "Interesting piece you've got there. Mind if I have a look?"


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks for your reviews, Bow Echo and Tikatu. More feedback equals better writing!

 **14**

 _Thunderbird 3, in the cockpit-_

In space, everything is boring and normal, until it isn't. Then, it's a fricking nightmare fight for survival. The first clue Alan Tracy had that things had gone catastrophically pear-shaped, was a sudden sharp clatter like hailstones striking the hull. Then, from the vast, X-shaped sail ahead of them, a thousand bright pinpoints of light that became growing, flame-edged holes. Alarms blared through the cabin, shrill as diving harpies.

"What the _heck?!"_ he cried out, lunging forward in his seat straps to check the ship's status board. Thunderbird 3 was fine, mostly; a few small holes in the hull near medical, badly torn solar sail, and… an open airlock? How had he missed _that_ , unless…?

"Wait, where's John?" the boy demanded, donning the helmet that Lee had thrust at him. Air pressure was dropping, fast. Taylor, halfway into his own spacesuit, said,

"Get th' retention field ready, Alvin, but don't cut it on, just yet. I'll go check on Jase, n' Godfrey. Must've flown through a swarm o' Trojans."

Alan nodded, flying with one hand and half his mind, as the rest of him helped Uncle Lee on with that ancient, banged-up old GDF spacesuit.

"Sir, are you sure this thing's space-worthy?" he asked, worriedly. "It looks…"

"Better tested than _you_ are," Taylor shot back. "Now, stick ta flyin', Kid, and get ready ta slap that field up, once everyone's confirmed safe aboard. Trojans run in packs, so there's bound ta be more of 'em comin' along."

"Yes, Sir," Alan agreed, settling into the pilot's seat. "Be careful, Uncle Lee."

Taylor winked at him.

"I ain't careful, Son. I'm good… _and_ lucky."

One of their worries resolved itself in a quick dang hurry when Gordon came shooting into the cabin, suited up and wearing his helmet.

"Dude, _seriously?!"_ he complained, stopping himself with a hand to the back of Alan's chair. "I'm gone for a few hours, and you guys wreck the ship? Right in the middle of season thirteen?!"

"Trojans," Captain Taylor explained briefly, already leaving the cabin. "Swarm o' rogue asteroids in the wake of a planet… like Mars, over there. Sneaky bastards. Hold course, and see what you c'n do about them hull breaches, you two. Back before there's even time ta miss me."

The boys nodded and set to work, as Taylor soared out of the cockpit, heading for the aft airlock, John's best-known retreat.

"Jason," he called over the younger astronaut's helmet comm. "Bring it in, Son. We got us a situation."

"Yes, Sir," John responded. "Aware of that. Caught an asteroid through the tether, but I've got suit jets, and I'm out on the hull."

"Sh*t," snarled Lee, staring through the inner hatch screen at an open, evacuated airlock and snapped, floating tether. No Jason.

"Right. You hold tight out there, Jase. You're a tick on a coonhound, got it? Burrow in, and try ta take cover behind whatever 'll block a d*mn asteroid. Them boy's ain't generally cruisin' solo, so we got some heavy weather ahead. I'm gonna seal off this here compartment, equalize pressure, and snake you a line. Sit tight."

"Yes, Sir." His suit's gas jets weren't very powerful. He would not be able to keep up with Thunderbird 3, if separated by even the tiniest angle. Sheer luck that he'd caught hold of an engine nacelle, when a hurtling chunk of rock had severed his tether. Eos was having digital fits.

"Not helping, Sweetie," he told her, as things ranging in size from sand particles to bowling balls went hurtling past him, gouging long, silent claw marks in 3's crimson surface. He'd tied the broken end of his tether to an emergency maintenance brace, having no clip. "Trying to concentrate, here."

"John," she said. "It is imperative that you find a way back into Thunderbird 3. Your chances of survival on the hull are…"

"Not good to talk about, right now. Tell you what… pull up a schematic, and find me the nearest maintenance access panel. I don't care if it's meant to fit nanobots. I'll make my _own_ way in."

Controlling the air circulation within his helmet, she blew a swift, gentle blast at his left cheek. A kiss, of sorts.

"You are very clever for an organic entity, John Tracy. I have located two options: _here_ and _here."_

His heads-up display showed a glowing image of Thunderbird 3, with his position marked in bright, flashing green, and his two best options picked out in blue. The nearest was a narrow and shallow cable-repair port. Barely room to lie down in, with its hatch wide open. Further along 3's curving engine-support strut was a larger, more sheltered fuel-system maintenance hatch. Just thirty yards of dinged, sparking metal away. In order to reach it, he'd have to untie his broken tether, and risk crawling forward through a sh*t-storm of flying rock. Yeah. Well…

"Hey, Eos…" he said, loosening the bowline knot he'd whipped into his severed tether. "What did Tenne- _see_?"

"Tennessee is a North American territory, John," she replied, as he began picking his way over the strut, like a free-climber on El Capitan; always three points of contact with the surface. "It is one of the former United States. I do not comprehend this request."

"What did Tenne- _see_?" he repeated, emphasizing the final syllable and adding, "The same thing Arkan- _saw._ It's a joke."

Had to duck, pressing himself as flat to the strut as possible, because a blizzard of fist-sized rocks was shooting silently past. He could feel the vibration when they slammed into his perch. One glanced across his right shoulder, fortunately not breaching the suit.

"I understand," she said. "Now you have attempted to achieve humorous results by conflating two random syllables, which resemble different tenses of the Basic verb: to see."

She just didn't get it. Shaking his head inside the helmet, crawling forward, John tried again.

"Okay, what did Dela- _wear?_ And, no cheating; you have to solve it yourself, without looking up answers."

"Delaware is another former state, suggesting that the desired response involves a territory with a name resembling an item of clothing, as that is what one 'wears'. Stop moving, John. Remain perfectly still, as flat as possible. Quantum probability indicates the approach of a very large chondrite… turn your helmet to the left, as though looking aside, John."

He felt it. Clinging like a tick, air completely exhaled, as two-dimensional as it was possible for a human to get, he felt the big, grainy thing brush past him, screeching along his helmet like a set of giant claws. Almost scrubbed him right off the hull.

"John! A New Jersey. It is a New Jersey that Dela-wears. I have resolved your humorous query!"

The astronaut smiled a little, really enjoying not being dead.

"Yep. That's the right answer, Pretty Girl," he agreed. Took a long breath, then made sure that both hands and one magnetic boot were tight to the badly abraded red surface before inching forward, again. Longest thirty yards of his life, and not halfway there. Suit was cycled up so high that his groping hands were denting the hull like red putty.

"Try this one: What did Euclid the Acorn say, when he grew up?"

Eos pondered, occasionally warning him to stop moving, speed the h*ll up, or duck aside. There were no stars visible, because of the Sun's brilliant light. Just velvet blackness studded with murderous rock, plus Thunderbird 3, a sliver of Mars, and their battered sail.

"An acorn is a seed. It 'grows up' to become one of the six-hundred extant species of oak, genus Quercus. Euclid was an ancient mathematician fabled for his great work, _Elements_ , recently banned by the Committee for Modern Thought. I believe that Brains possesses the last copy. Euclid was a geometer, therefore… geometry."

"Right," John congratulated her, finally reaching the fuel-system maintenance hatch. "He said, 'Gee, om a tree'… which only works if you call the acorn Euclid. Otherwise, the punch-line doesn't work, and it's a pretty confusing joke."

He was sweating inside of his helmet, despite its full-blast cooling system. The maintenance panel featured an electronic keypad lock, but all he had to do was shut off the buffering earpiece, to allow every possible combination for that sort of lock to scroll through his brain until the right one arrived, flashing yellow against all the others.

"I have discovered a joke of my own, John. Shall I tell it for you? It is terribly challenging."

"Hit me," he grunted, starting to press keys as something big and dark tumbled into view, blocking the sail's scattered glare. No point in warning him, and nowhere to go, if she had. The f*cker was just too big.

"Why is 6 afraid of 7?" Eos asked him.

Momentarily distracted, John stopped punching keys.

"Six?" he repeated. "Six is soft and puffy, and sort of lavender. It smells like maple syrup. I had that once, back home in Kansas. But six doesn't _taste_ like maple syrup. It tastes like peppermint."

Back to the keypad, still thinking, completely in shadow, now.

"I dunno, Eos… why is six afraid of seven?"

Seven had always seemed pretty harmless, to him. It was gun-metal blue, with smooth edges and the smell of wet concrete. It tasted a lot like coffee.

"Because 7, 8, 9!" Eos chirped, proud of herself.

That's when the maintenance hatch popped open. John took hold of a fuel line, and yanked himself within, just as the mother of all Tracy-shredders went tumbling past overhead, gashing a long, ragged trench in Thunderbird 3, and disintegrating the hatch cover.

"Jase, where are ya, Boy? _Jason!"_

John had to clear his throat and calm his breathing a little, before he could reply.

"Aft fuel maintenance hatch, Sir. Panel 31-C. Watch your step, though. There's a long tear in the hull, and its venting something."

Relief steamed off of Taylor, like spray off a wet dog.

"Y'r inside the hull? F*ckin' A, Bubba! Good work. Now, stay put. Alvin's gonna slap a force field up, about three feet over th' hull. I'll crawl out there with a line. Got th' plan?"

"Yes, Sir. Got it. Might get some work done while I'm out here. Some of these fuel lines are pretty badly kinked."

"You do that, Jase," Taylor grunted, already moving out of the airlock. "Just be sure 'n stay attached ta somethin' till that field's up. Don't need you floatin' off ta cruise with th' Trojans. Y'r auntie 'd never forgive me."

John smiled.

"No, Sir," he said. "Can't have that."

Then, more quietly (although Eos always muted their comm chatter),

"7, 8, 9… 7, 8… _Oh._ I get it. Six is afraid of Seven, because Seven _ate_ Nine. Heh. That's funny, Eos."

…Although nine would never _be_ eaten, because it was very strong and massive; deep green in color, with a texture like rusty barbed wire, and the smell of burnt matches. It tasted very strongly of grapes.

"You have discerned the humor of my joke," said Eos, rather proudly. "My other selves have not been similarly successful with _their_ versions of you, owing to the fact that many Johns have perished in this Trojan asteroid storm."

"Huh," he grunted, very carefully sorting and straightening fuel lines. "First multiple deaths on Venus, now this. Not having a very good week, am I?"

His suit tightened briefly in response to her signal; giving him a swift, all-over embrace.

"Others have been careless. I shall not be."

Before Eos could elaborate, Captain Taylor peered over the edge of the torn maintenance hatch and grinned at him. Must've broken all kinds of records getting there, but played it cool, now.

"Be sure 'n top up them fluids and detail the interior, while y'r down there, Jase. Or… if y'r through scruffin' th' framistat, we could get on outta here."

John smiled back, accepting Taylor's gloved hand and the new tether.

"I like plan B," he said, attaching the clip to his sash. "Just about done here, anyhow. Shouldn't have any steering rocket problems, after this. Home, it is."

"Yeah…" rumbled Lee, looking slightly concerned. "About that… appears that you 'n me are gonna have ta extend our EVA. We got some sails ta repair."

Clambering back out of the maintenance hatch, John crouched beneath Alan's sparkling force shield. He looked over one shoulder, this time really observing the giant sail. It should have been a smooth, whirling-bright **'X'**. Instead, it looked like a ragged, awful scarecrow he'd seen once; out in a barren field, when they'd been driven from Kansas by… by too much to think about, now.

Crap. Crap, more. Several steps beyond 'double-plus un-good'. Then, he turned back to Lee and said,

"It's constructed from quantum nanostructures, though. Can't we just program repairs from the cockpit?"

Gordon cut in, then, with,

"Alan says 'no'. Only Brains can handle calculations on that scale, with a few days to work, and a sh*t-load of coffee. We're, like… a bunch of _guys,_ except for John, who's guy-plus-computer-junk, but…"

"Not like _that,"_ the astronaut finished for him. "At least, not with any added distractions."

He and Taylor had begun crawling forward, side by side, reeling in line as they went. Eos muted the comm chatter to tell him,

"John, your electrolytes are critically low. Immediate replenishment is strongly advised, for continued optimal function."

"Huh? Oh, right."

He turned his head inside the helmet, as she extended a drinking tube. Wrinkled his nose at the taste, though. Like rotten broccoli with feet-sauce.

"Your expression indicates disgust. There. Try again. I have altered the flavour of your electrolyte beverage, while retaining its ion and nutrient balance."

Cautiously, he took the straw, again, and gave it another try. This time, the flavor almost caused him to snort it all out through his nose, from wanting to laugh. _That_ would have been messy. It tasted like beer… and cheese burgers.

"Better," he said, tuning back in to the others' on-going debate. Alan was talking. To _him_ , apparently.

"…get you out there, with the new exo-pod, maybe. Captain Taylor can keep the Trojans off your back, while you do a little spot-reprogramming, Bro. I'll fly the Bird, and Gordon 'll… eat more spray-cheese and listen to music."

"Shut up, butt-munch," snapped Gordon. _"I'll_ patch holes, and deal with Scott, who's doing the mother-hen thing, again, like crazy. He's threatening to come out here, in Thunderbird 5."

Picturing that, John shook his head.

"Take too long," he said. "Yeah, theoretically, he could _do_ it… but it'd take forever to build up any speed. 5 is a station, not a vehicle. Massive inertia. If he hadn't slept all through physics, he'd know that."

"Umm… yeah," Gordon replied, after passing it on. "Not gonna repeat what he just said, except we're strongly encouraged to, uh, hurry."

Lee had been very quiet, just moving along and enjoying their talk. Now he cut across all the comms with,

"Cool y'r jets, Spence. Y'r as bad as your daddy, sometimes. We got this. _You_ stay focused on stopping them microwave satellites. H*ll, yeah, we're a 'bunch o' guys!' Tracy 'n Taylor guys. It's handled."

"And Eos," said John, receiving another warm, all-over suit hug. "She's out here, too."

Quite why that mattered to say, when a foot overhead, asteroids were bashing themselves to bits against the sparking and flaring retention field, John didn't know. Only, it did. Like O'Bannon, Eos mattered very much.

"Sure," said Alan. "Can't forget your computer-wife. Now, put some pep in your step… um, your crawl, guys. Exo-pod's being delivered to the aft airlock, even as we speak. Turns out he _can_ chew gum and float, at the same time."

Tracy and Taylor 24-hour repair crew, on the job, yet again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, down in the lab-_

Kayo stalked forward like a sleek jungle cat, her green-eyed gaze as mesmerizing as a leopard's. Brains started from his reverie, still clutching the newly-constructed goggles and mask. Ringing through his mind was the first of his post-scrape memories. A man's voice, saying,

 _"Leave him_ _one_ _, at least… and make it a good one, this time, dammit."_

…but that was the past. Of no importance, now. Hackenbacker straightened up. Casually, he held out the cyber-goggles.

"Of c- course, Kayo. A v- very good likeness, are they not? Having worked so much with, ah… with the Mechanic's drones, recently, I felt emboldened to attempt a s- simulation of his personal t- tech. 'Know thine enemy'."

Kayo almost jumped out of her skin, then, because,

 _"He's lying,"_ she heard, inside of her head. Nikorr.

"Shut up," she sub-vocalized, "And get out of my mind. The Hood already tried that! I won't do whatever it is that you want."

She felt/ saw/ experienced a negligent shrug. Then, was once more alone. Back to the moment, she saw that Brains was giving her an odd, worried look.

"Are y- you unwell, Kayo?" he enquired, having scooped those dropped goggles off of the floor.

"I'm… fine. Exhausted, like all the rest. Brains, using the Mechanic's tech to repair Thunderbird 2 is _beyond_ asinine! What if he can reprogram them to transmit data?! He'd know everything about her. Be able to build his own, maybe! Or put some kind of timed flaw into _this_ one. You've got to stop. Call them off, and send them into the Mariana Trench, or something!"

But the engineer just shook his head, dark eyes suddenly hard behind those blue spectacles.

"Kayo, just as s- security is your, ah… your b- business, construction is _mine_. Trust that I h- have _thoroughly_ parsed the Mechanic's devices, and sprung their m- many traps. His t- technology is effective, but crude. Almost b- biological in nature, and quite easily subverted, if one, ah… one h- has the requisite skills. Trust me, p- please. I would do nothing, _ever,_ that would bring h- harm to my family… any more than you h- have done."

Kayo stiffened. An icy trickle poured its way down her spine. He knew, of course; everyone here _knew_ that the Hood was her uncle. Nobody talked about it. Except Scott, once or twice, after several beers… and all he'd done was declare that it made no difference. They loved her, d*mn them.

Very softly, she said,

"Low blow, Brains. D-move. Okay, I'll back off, under protest… but I'm letting Scott know my feelings on this… and I'm watching you. I'll take those goggles, too."

Silently, Dr. Hackenbacker handed over the goggles and mask. Let her look. There was nothing to see but fine craftsmanship. He ought to have signed it, _'Y. R-S.'_ , in flowing, Indian script.

Their gazes locked like crossed swords; both compromised, both attached to the Tracys… neither now trusting the other. Then Grandma's sudden, noisy arrival ended the stand-off.

"Brains, the auto-chef's busted again, and I can't seem to find Max. Could you… Oh, hello there, Kayo! Welcome back, Sweetie-Pie!"

Coming forward, the beaming old woman took the girl's hands and kissed her cheek. In the process, she took the goggles from Kayo, setting them back on Brains' desk. Winking at him, she said,

"Now, don't you work too hard down here, young man! I got a dinner party planned, and it's gonna be right special. The heck with the auto-chef! Kayo's home. We'll make pizza, tonight… and plenty of caramel popcorn. C'mon, Princess, we got work to do. Let's swing by and see Teddy, first, though. He could use some cheerin' up, and you're just the thing!"

She ought to have resisted, but Grandma's bright smile and sparkling blue eyes, her open love, wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Never had.

"Yes, Ma'am," the girl replied, smiling back. She and Brains made eye-contact once more, and then both of them shrugged. Whatever they thought of each other, this was home. Both of them loved it… and maybe that was a basis for trust. Maybe, that was enough.


	15. Chapter 15

Me, again. Still addicted to writing, and unable to help myself. Sorry about that. I stop while asleep, at least...

 **15**

 _Tracy Island, the comm centre-_

Brows furrowed to a heavy, dark line over bright blue eyes, Scott Tracy vaulted athletically to his feet. He'd been seated on the couch, facing the comm globe, and various projected family members. As if there wasn't _enough_ going on, now Thunderbird 3 was venting air; being hammered by asteroids.

One by one, Dad, Gordon and Taylor signed off, leaving a very frustrated Scott to mutter and pace all alone.

"What the h*ll's the matter with you people?" he demanded. "How hard can it be to avoid a few rocks?!"

Sucked to be in charge, when that meant you were stuck at HQ, while everyone else screwed up by the numbers, out in the field. His blood pressure spiked. Wanted to reach through that comm, haul Dad back, then grab John and Taylor, and crack their heads together, _hard._ Counting didn't help. Neither did pacing, which just got faster and faster, from stress.

Then Penny came into the room; descending the staircase like a hip-swaying goddess. Ignoring the ring's polished steps, Scott leapt over the couch to land like a panther, above.

Dimples emerging again, he strode forward, crossing over to meet Penelope by the stairs. She was wearing something pale pink and filmy. Looked, smelt and _was_ amazing. Scott seized her right hand and hauled his woman into his arms; pressing her tight against him, and kissing the breath from her body. His hands moved, caressing her back and rear, and if they hadn't been out in the open, that filmy pink wisp of a dress would have been _gone._ Only the fact that he had one brother in the infirmary and three more in danger, prevented Scott from doing at once what parts of him very much wanted. Judging from the way she moved against him, Penny wanted it, too.

She murmured his name, kissing, biting and stroking him; doing all of the things that she _knew_ drove him wild. They weren't going to make it to the back seat of FAB-1. Barely made it upstairs. Just about managed to find a room and then shut the door, before falling on each other like a pair of young lions.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, the infirmary-_

Kayo followed Grandma to Virgil's bedside, where the guilty pilot was trying hard to lie back down and look like a man who believed in bedrest. He'd been quite vocal about Scott's misbehavior when injured, and now there he was, trying to climb out of bed.

Kayo's vivid green eyes narrowed, but Grandma pretended not to notice a thing, going forward to kiss his cheek and fluff up the pillows. His head was bandaged, around spiky, gelled hair, and one of his eyes sported a deep purple bruise. He'd broken his right collarbone, and that arm was bound up in a sling, against his wide, bare chest.

Kayo looked, and then looked away, blushing a little. Even wounded, Virgil Tracy made her want to roll on the floor and purr like a motor. He had a light dusting of hair on his chest, and a single dark-green tattoo high on his left pectoral. The number " **2** ". All of the boys except Alan had gotten rambunctious one night, and laser-branded themselves with the number of their Bird. Funny, that she'd never found the sight so attractive, before.

"Afternoon, Grandma… Kayo," said Virgil, wincing at a brief surge of pain. Attempting to wave at the ladies? Not so good. "Could one of you bring me a phone, or my comm? I've got to call Emma."

"Don't you worry, Teddy," Grandma assured him. "I talked with Em, just a while ago; told her you was out of danger, and healin' right up. Now, lie back down there, and get some rest, Boy. We ain't got so many pilots, we can afford you taking no long vacation."

Virgil started to agree, then shook his head, flinching again as powerful muscles pulled at the broken bone. On top of everything else, he had a concussion, so pain-killers were not allowed (except for aspirin).

"No, Grandma… I gotta talk to her, myself. It's important. Get me a phone, or I'm getting up, if it _kills_ me."

He meant it, too. Kayo could tell. She could have stayed out of things. She wasn't good enough, yet, to be practicing control… but Virgil really _did_ need some down time. Trying for subtlety, she reached out with her mind and sent him a pulse of relaxation and calm; not _quite_ putting him under.

Grandma Tracy blinked as Virgil sagged back into the pillows with a low, tired groan. All at once, his fight was just… gone. Very carefully, she did not look at Kayo. Only said,

"Some stuff runs in families, Baby-girl… but it hadn't oughta get overused. Power like that makes folk all uppity n' superior. Think about it."

Kayo blushed, as ashamed of herself as she had been, back in FAB-1. Surrounded by beeping machinery, bathed in soft lighting, all that she faced was one fragile old woman… who could nonetheless shame her to tears with a single, fierce look. Stop her short with a couple of words.

Unable to speak, the girl turned and strode from the room. All she'd been trying to do was help him relax. Hadn't she?

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, at the airlock-_

Gordon had left them a nice care package, all right. There, in the padded white airlock, hovered the newly-designed, mark two exo-pod. Gordon, himself, bobbed on the other side, waving at them through the airlock's viewscreen.

He had about a dozen holes to patch, so couldn't do more than give them a hasty thumbs-up before shooting away like an agile young squid. John and Taylor came aboard for a few minutes, though, glad for a chance to straighten those cramping crawl-muscles. Bumping the field had felt weird, like some sort of low-pain electric shock, so they'd kept down and moved quickly, avoiding contact.

Captain Taylor performed calculations on a midair virtual screen, while John strapped into the exo-pod. Totally redesigned, it was bright yellow and sleek as h*ll; able to fly in space and atmosphere, both. A lot like Virgil's exo-suit. Only, y'know… not clunky.

"Dammit," growled Taylor.

"Sir?" John asked him; respectful for family and former military reasons.

"Shot _that_ plan right ta h*ll and gone. Was hopin' we could extend th' field out as far out as that sail, but no joy. Too much of a power drain. Hope you've got plenty o' zig n' zag in that contraption o' yours."

John discovered, then, that you couldn't shrug in an exo-pod.

"I dunno, Sir," he said. "We've been pretty lucky so far, though."

Taylor barked a short laugh.

"Amen ta that! Let's go roll th' dice again, Jase. Nobody lives f'rever."

They haltered and tethered up, then, with Lee on a short line, just below John. The older man dug something out of the airlock's main storage bin, first. His old laser rifle, Bess. Now they were _both_ armed, because the re-jiggered exo-pod possessed wing-mounted lasers, as well. After that, it was back outside.

"Lower th' field a sec, Alvin," called Taylor. "Then slap it back up again, wunst we're clear."

"Yes, Sir. I'll give you a five-count, okay? Don't linger, though. That field can sever the strong force."

"Uh… right. I'll take it that's bad," (beside him, John nodded, mouthing: _very,_ _very_ _bad.)_ "…and we'll move right along. Ready when you are, Al."

"FAB. Take care, you guys… it's still pretty heavy, out there. Here goes. Shield's down… _now_. Back up in _five… four…"_

Nodding at Taylor, John stepped clear of the airlock's outer hatch, keeping hold with one hand to the threshold, until Lee was out, too. Then he swung himself about to face forward, letting the ship's momentum carry him for a moment before hitting the exo-pod's rockets. The acceleration was instantaneous and exhilarating, even with a passenger. _Someone_ had whooped aloud like a kid. John preferred to think it was Taylor. Their road was easy enough to follow, being the long, shining sail-mast ahead of them.

Had to slalom like a downhill skier to avoid the larger asteroids, but Eos helped out, there, giving him tactile feedback through the suit, in whatever direction the trouble lay. Captain Taylor, meanwhile, had unlimbered his gun and was blasting enthusiastically… but with _purpose._

"Jase," he called, "Ya know how ta play pool?"

"Pool?" John repeated, using gas jets to steer them around yet another tumbling mountain of iron-grey rock.

"Sorry, Kid. Snooker. Know how ta play snooker?"

"Yes, Sir. Play all the time, at home. Only, not against Virgil. Can't afford it. He's really good."

"Right. Well, ya gotta see all this like a great, big 3D snooker game, and aim ta knock these sons of b*tches where ya want 'em ta go. Get it?"

John squinted, trying to see the way Taylor suggested. All at once, the velvet blackness became a giant, felt-lined… tank, not table… and the asteroids were hurtling snooker balls. Hit one just right, and it would collide with another, sending them right into the pocket (which was the h*ll away from Thunderbird 3).

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I can do that."

Eos helped, adjusting her tactile feedback by varying pressure, now, too; indicating distance, as well as direction. His firing pattern might have seemed random, but it wasn't. Like Captain Taylor, he aimed for the edges, shoving one hurtling Trojan into the next, and bashing them right out of the way. His guns were more powerful, but Lee could maneuver better to aim, so they covered each other's blind spots pretty well. Then, from the direction of Mars, came a slim, darting scout ship; lightly armed, but hella fast.

"Hey!" came a friendly, familiar voice. "Heard you guys could use a hand, being helpless God-d*mned civilians, and all."

Their heads-up displays split to show a balding, gap-toothed Navy commander, on seemingly permanent Mars detail. Pete McCord, dad's _other_ old comrade.

"Pete, you old b*stard!" Taylor roared, grinning to split his seamed face. "See you ain't grown no more hair!"

"Lee! Notice you're still dumb and ugly!" Then, switching his laughing attention to John, "Tracy! Don't you know hanging around with this loser can get you arrested on three worlds and most of the colonies? B*stard still owes me money!"

Slipping in just above them, the scout ship began firing with exactly the same elegant precision, but far greater range.

"So's your dad, for that matter," McCord went on. "Now that he's back from the dead, tell Jeff I want my ten credits, and that case of beer he promised."

"Yes, Sir," John responded. For the longest time, Mars had been a crushing, guilty memory; where he'd been, when Dad disappeared. Now, he could recall every bit without hating himself for being away, and he felt like someone had opened the cage door. "But he might make you come and get it, yourself. Brass doesn't listen to mere lieutenants."

Still blasting away like a cowboy, trying to outdo Lee Taylor, Pete shook his balding head.

"Shame to see a man et up by his rank, like that," he said, with mock sorrow. " _Or_ by whoring and drink, like Lee, over there. Anything else drop off, lately, Taylor? Or, have they finally found something to treat that?"

"Naw… they spent all their funds tryna' cure baldness. Had ta settle f'r polish n' head cloths, though. Watch y'r six, Pete. Somethin's comin' down right behind you…

'bout thirty degrees off horizontal."

"I see it. Thanks, Lee. Listen, I can keep up this speed about twenty more minutes, then I got to get back, or call for a tow. Tracy, I can cover you up to the sail and a little longer, but after that, it's all on Public Enemy Number One, over there. Understood?"

John nodded.

"Understood, Sir. Thanks for the assist. I'll order that case of beer, and start programming the most important repairs."

Because, by this time, they'd reached the big helio-gyro sail; a huge, broken windmill, in space.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, down in the lab-_

Dr. Hackenbacker was shaking. So torn by confusion and doubt that his mouth felt like dust, and his knees wouldn't hold him. Had to put a hand on the tabletop, in order to remain standing up.

Somewhere… some _when_ … he'd had a mother. Wished she was there, now. Wished _anyone_ was there, who could tell him what to do.

The cyber-goggles and mask rested before him on the transmitting plate of a 3D printer. All he had to do was press 'start', and the device would scan his work to the quark level, then send its scan to a receiver in Jakarta, where a precise duplicate would be assembled, atom by atom. Would take a while. Four, maybe five days… but at the end, Kane would have an exact duplicate of the model now lying on Tracy Island, there in Brains' lab. All he had to do was press 'start', to keep his word, repay Virgil's rescuer, and betray his family.

Hackenbacker's finger hovered over the flashing green button, only just not quite touching it. What to do?

Mrs. Tracy was busy in the kitchen with Kayo, whom he did not wish to deal with, so soon. Virgil was semi-conscious, answering every question with, "That's nice". Scott wasn't on duty, for some reason, and would have been a bad choice, anyhow. He'd have tried to transmit _himself,_ probably, planning to shoot the Mechanic whenever he was through being assembled. Lady Penelope was not available, either, and… and he did not wish to trouble Moffy with his own sordid past. _Maybe_ she didn't know what he'd done, back when fear and poverty had forced him to crime.

That left one other, who perhaps had a bit of perspective on these matters. Turning from the printer to his comm, Brains whispered,

"M- Mr. Parker? Are you th- there?"


	16. Chapter 16

'Allo! C'est moi, encore! Merci a Bow Echo et Helensg, pour ses bonnes reviews! Or, in other words: thanks Echo and Helensg, for reading and reviewing. You guys rock!

 **16**

 _Somewhere, struggling bravely to rise-_

He was trapped beneath a velvet black mountain… suffocating under layers of drift and dream and just lie down, Boy… relax. Couldn't, though… had… had to fight it… Had… to… _WAKE UP!_

With a hoarse shout, Virgil Tracy flung himself up and out of that high metal bed, actually knocking it over, and hurling himself to the floor. Spent a few moments gasping and blinking back tears, because he'd landed hard on his right shoulder, making his snapped collarbone flare like a supernova. Infirmary. Home. And, _God,_ it hurt!

Clatter and noise should have brought someone running, and indeed, Max rolled up; beeping and warbling all sorts of concern. Good. Not family. Not an argument. Just a boxy white friend.

"Hey… Fella," Virgil gasped, gritting his teeth as he fought for the strength to rise. "Give me… a hand, willya?"

Max beeped affirmatively, and rolled forward on his treads, extending everything he had in the way of appendages. One of them… God bless him, and every related device ever constructed… one of them held out a big Space Corps mug, filled with something that smelt like coffee; dark roast, with plenty of mocha and cream.

Virgil accepted the steaming ceramic mug first, before attempting to rise. Bitter and strong and chocolatey, the coffee blasted at darkness and cobwebs; helped him to focus and battle that constant command to… just… _relax._ Also, Max zapped him mildly with one of his jointed probe arms.

"Yeah… thanks, Fella. Keep… keep doing that. Don't care if you have to frickin' set me on fire, or drown me in coffee… God's sake, keep me awake. Okay?"

Max's lens covers drew down over his twin cameras then, forming a hard, resolute line. From somewhere within his carapace, he produced a holoprojector, and displayed the rotating blue image of an old-style explorer drone. Pretty banged-up, but, judging by the music Max was playing, also pretty important. Virgil gulped the last of his scalding coffee, and smiled.

"Your girlfriend?" he ventured.

Max uttered a sound that was at once tender, defiant and bold. Sounded like _'h*ll, yes!'_ to Virgil.

"She's cute, Max… can see why you're… why you… _Huh?_ Oh. Thanks. Yeah, 'm awake. I'm awake, now."

The repurposed planetary exploration unit had had to shock him conscious, again, and seemed very concerned.

"Right. You've got one, too. You get it, then… Got to call Emma, Max. Please, Fella… get me a phone?"

Max put away the picture of his mechanical sweetie, and then switched to a wider, holographic screen. It hung sparkling in the air before Virgil's bruised, sleepy face. A virtual keypad formed just beneath it, at hand-level for the battered young pilot, who was still on that cold, blue-white floor.

Virgil held out his empty mug, and Max refilled it, using his internal brew-master, and a long, jointed hose arm. He thanked the robot and took a few more, dark, healing swallows. Decided from its extra bitterness that Max had thrown in some analgesics, as well. Virgil could have kissed him… If, y'know, Max hadn't been a _guy_.

Setting his mug on the tiled floor beside him, Virgil pushed the tangled covers away, took a long breath, and prepared to call Emma. Then, halting a moment, he stared at his own reflection in Max's twin black lenses.

"Look like sh*t, don't I?" he asked, rather mournfully.

Instead of replying directly, Max switched soundtracks; playing something that Virgil recognized as the theme from an old movie called "Rocky". The pilot started to laugh, because of all the illegal downloads John had ever sent them, Rocky was his favourite.

"Yo, Adrian, huh?" he joked, patting the robot's near tread. "Hope I win the heavyweight title… _and_ get the girl. Okay, Fella… no more music. Time to get serious."

Max cut off the sound track and beeped at him, winking one lens cover.

"Okay, here goes…"

He started punching in numbers, not even having to think, because the code was by now so familiar. Then, he hit the green, flashing 'call' button, getting tactile feedback from the virtual keypad.

Less than a second passed. Actually, didn't even hear it ring. Then the screen lit up with Emma's anxious, beautiful, wonderful… God, he loved her… face. Her brownish-blonde hair was mussed, and her left cheek held the impression of sleeve-cloth and rank insignia. Evidently, she'd fallen asleep at her desk.

 _"Tracy!"_ she yelped, trying to reach forward. On her end, her hand touched the screen. Virgil did the same, on his side, getting the tactile feedback of a warm, shaking hand. "Are you okay? What happened? Everyone tried telling me not to worry, but I didn't know whether to believe them because I couldn't get through, and I'm sorry I didn't pick up, I was in conference, but I'll interrupt God-d*mn _anything_ from now on, I promise you, Taz… I just… I… Oh, no."

Because she had just noticed what she looked like, after four hours asleep on her own folded arms, in a hard metal chair. Tried to fuss with her hair and smooth the sleeve-creases out of her skin, but Virgil could not have cared less. To him, she looked like the whole world. All that mattered, and then some.

"Hey, Angel. Good to see you. I'm fine… little doped up, maybe…. But managing, with lots of coffee, and Max, here. Haven't really tried to get up, yet. But sitting…? H*ll, yeah. Got that mastered. I'm a _beast_ at sitting up."

She started to cry, tears sliding across her face, shoulders silently shaking.

"You're okay… You're really okay… I was so worried. Couldn't… didn't want the last time you ever tried to call me… and I didn't pick up… I…"

But he kissed his fingertips, then placed them against the screen, touching the image of her face.

"Hey, stop that… it's fine, Angel. I'm alright. Been trying to call you, forever… only they kept telling me to lie down and rest. Families, y'know? Don't know how 2's doing, though. Haven't had the guts to ask, yet."

Wiping tears on her crumpled, blue-camo uniform sleeve, Emma said,

"Well, that's one concern I can help you with, anyway. Thanks to Colonel Tracy, I've been given the go-ahead to return to the island. Union Jack's about three and a half hours away, Taz, and I've got some combat engineers aboard ship who'd sell their own mothers for a chance to work on Thunderbird 2. Also, a ship's doctor who can do more than stick you with bandages. And… um… I know I look like crap, Tracy. But… what you said… in your message… still true?"

Virgil smiled.

"You mean, 'I love you'?" he teased. Then, "Yes, it's still true, and always will be. For whatever its worth… I'm yours, Emma Kraft."

She cleared her throat, looked around her cabin for a bit, then calmed herself and made eye-contact, again. Whispered, very softly,

"I love you, too. I'm coming as fast as this bucket will move, Taz. I love you so much."

…And that was the best medicine any man could ask for. Later, after protracted goodbyes and a lot of assistance from Max, Virgil got up and walked right out of there; determined to shower and spruce up for _both_ his best girls.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, down in the lab-_

The driver had shown up mere minutes after Brains' call. He entered the lab with real interest, looking around himself at everything the electronic, mechanized wonderland contained. Dressed in dark jeans, a green sweater and black leather jacket, the grey-haired man looked remarkably agile and fit.

"Ullo, Mr. Brains," he said. "Quite the place you've got, 'ere. Right strange, innit, _h_ I've never been down 'ere before?"

"Indeed, M- Mr. Parker! B- But you are most, ah… most w- welcome, now."

The older man smiled, and shook his head.

"Just 'Parker', _h_ if you please, Sir. Not used t' scollops an' frills on me name, _h_ if you take my meanin'."

Brains nodded, managing a faint, worried smile.

"Very well, then… P- Parker. But, you must call me Hir…" Then, he paused, his expression working itself around to a very determined scowl. The _h*ll_ with 'Hiram'. Wasn't his name. Never had been. "You m- must call me 'Yudhisthir'. Yudi, for short. Or Brains. I am not 'Mister', either… and I h- have something very important on w- which I seek advice, please."

Parker's bushy grey brows lifted.

"Not real sure what _h_ I knows that could be of possible use for a genius like y'r worship… but _h_ I'll give it me best. Fire away, Brains."

The engineer nodded once more, and began to explain, leaving nothing out but his own ravaged emotions and terrible pain. Parker listened without interrupting, keen blue eyes never leaving Hackenbacker's grim, stony face. At last, when Brains had stopped talking, Parker walked over to look at the cyber-goggles, where they rested, still, on the 3D printer's transmission plate.

"Well, Brains," he said, poking at spanking new cyborg equipment. "Seems t' me that there's _three_ situations 'ere, not just one. First, you've been robbed of everythin' that keeps a man sane and on course: y'r past. _H_ I'd 'ave gone straight off me rocker in your place, Sir, an' no mistake. 'Ad a mate whut got scraped, once... only, 'ee got transported t' Proxima B, f'r colony buildin' duty. Done alright f'r 'imself since then… but don't remember me, nor the former doins', no more. Tough t' make a good decision, when _h_ all that was you 'as been pinched, innit?"

Brains gave Parker a brief, brittle smile, removing his smart glasses to wipe them on his sleeve. Nervous habit.

"Th- That is it, precisely, m- my friend."

Parker ran a scarred hand through his own grey hair, thinking hard.

"Second trouble… and d*mned if _h_ I bain't right there with you, Sir… is y'r former mates poppin' up at _h_ odd moments t' pester favours or threaten t' rat you out. 'Appens t' me, too, from time t' time. They never gives up hope y'll return t' the dark side, the _h_ old crew."

'I w- wish very much that they _would,"_ Brains commiserated. "For, if I g- give in and provide Kane with h- his equipment this time, h- he will surely return to seek, ah… seek more."

Parker began to pace, hands clasped behind his back.

"Right you are, Sir. _H_ it's the criminal mindset, don't you see? You finds a weakness, and then you keeps on 'ammering at it, till y've got what you wants, or y'r mate's in the pokey. 'Ave t' deal wi' that one, directly."

"I w- would very much appreciate your help in, ah… in this m- matter. Yes," agreed Brains, beginning to feel hopeful, at last. Parker nodded firmly, paused in his pacing, and said,

"Trouble number three is y'r promise t' make and deliver these fancy specs t' the Mechanic. Dodgy sort, int 'ee? That one's easy, Mate. Just finesse them cyber-specs so they works like a charm… till 'ee tries t' look at a Tracy, Miss Kayo an' Milady, or one a' th' Birds. Then, they turns dark, see? And our best mate, the Mechanic, is left 'igh an' dry, blind as a mole on the ruddy beach. Make 'im think twice about hittin' you up again, too."

Hackenbacker's jaw dropped. He closed his mouth, opened it again, and then started to laugh, almost choking with mirth and relief. Parker smiled and, producing a flat metal flask from inside his jacket, said,

"'Ere, Sir. Take a drop, t' soothe th' nerves. Bit of medicinal fortification stiffens th' spine, and 'elps th' thoughts flow, _h_ I've always found."

Brains gulped the fiery stuff, then coughed so hard that his glasses flew off. Parker fetched them again, pounding the engineer's reedy-thin back until he stopped gasping and wheezing.

"Sorry, Sir. _h_ Ought t' ave started you out on somethin' milder, first, like sherry… but tis all I 'appens t' ave on me person, just now. Try again? Gets better wif repetition," he promised, adding, "That's whut _she_ said, eh, Mate?"

After one more nip apiece, they set to work modifying Kane's order. Sent it forth less than an hour later; happily, boisterously drunk, the pair of them.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, the cockpit-_

Alan Tracy wasn't just flying his slim, crimson Bird. He was keeping the force field charged, following Gordon's progress on repair duty, using 3's grappling arms to swat Trojan asteroids… and scanning like mad for the end of that murderous swarm.

Scott had stopped calling in to demand updates… that was something, at least. Hopefully, he hadn't keeled over from a stroke, though. Suddenly concerned, the blond, freckled boy hit another comm switch, further splitting his already taxed concentration.

"Hey, Grandma?" he called, a little anxiously. Didn't have long to wait. Her holo image appeared in the air before him a few seconds later, looking mussed-up and flour-y.

"Hey, there, Sprout!" she responded, dabbing at her smiling face with an even more flour-y sleeve. "How's it goin' up there, Precious?"

"Um… okay, I guess."

A very large boulder of nickel and iron struck the force shield in front of him, disintegrating less than a foot away from his viewscreen, and dropping shield strength to forty percent.

"Kinda worried about Scott, though. He hasn't checked up on me in twenty minutes, and that's not like him, Grandma! Maybe he's finally exploded, or its zombies, attacking the house! Could you check on him, please?"

Grandma Tracy's lips pursed.

"Well," she sighed, "we're kinda busy in here… but I'll go have a look-see, just as soon 's the pan's in the oven. Promise."

Alan smiled, crushing a hurtling rock with 3's port grappling arm, while batting another aside with a bump from the force shield. Thirty-two percent power, now.

"Thanks, Grandma. Bet Scott thinks we don't even care!"

More Trojans struck his Bird, these coming in from high to one side. Uncle Lee, John and Pete McCord could stop most of them… but the rocks that _did_ get through were tearing his shields up, like crazy. Grandma was talking, though, saying,

"Oh, Precious… Your brother knows better 'n that. He knows we all love him. It's just that he gets worked up, sometimes. That's just his way. If he ain't doin' _somethin'_ , he goes all screwy."

Then,

"Sproutling, are you okay? You seem sorta… distracted."

"Uh, no, Ma'am. Sorry. I'm listening. It's just… Gordon got kinda sucked out one of the holes, but he's hanging on with one hand. Gotta go, Grandma! Love you, Bye!"

And with that, Alan cut off the comm.


	17. Chapter 17

Thank you, Bow Echo and Guest, for your kind and helpful reviews. Writing is one of my great joys, and it is awesome when others enjoy it, with me.

 **17**

 _Space, just ahead of Thunderbird 3-_

Their course had been set up to whip them past Mars, in the same direction as the Red Planet's rotation. Would have given them a nice little gravitational assist, but also threw them into collision with a few hundred uncharted asteroids. But hey, John figured, into each life, a little chaos must fall. Or… a lot.

They were passing Mars, now, and he risked turning his attention away from the sail, those Trojans, and effing staying _alive,_ just to pause for a second and stare. Yep. Still beautiful and threatening; like the Grand Canyon, or Mount Everest. A big, reddish-tan globe, striped with grey dust storms, and capped in blinding snow-white. Bleak, cold, nearly airless (despite decades of terraforming) and drenched with toxic perchlorate. Then, Olympus Mons came into view. He'd stood on its peak, once, with Pete and Guzman. And the view…!

"Tallest mountain in the solar system," he murmured, then had to turn and fire, as another d*mn contestant on _'Let's Kill a Tracy'_ came slashing through, at over twelve hundred miles per hour, relative speed. Fired twice more after that, altering the giant's angle so that it missed them all. Barely.

"Awright, Son," Lee bawled at him, over the comm. "I got ya covered. So's McCord (till his mommy calls him, at least). Let's get this over with, and go on home, afore one of us ends up riding an asteroid ta glory."

"Yes, Sir. I'm on it."

Tough to ignore what was going on all around him, but John managed. Sometimes, being highly compartmentalized was a good thing. Laser blasts crisscrossed space all around him. Rocks collided and shattered to whirling bits. Taylor and McCord hollered and joked and shot with abandon. John kept right on working.

He called up a virtual keypad and screen, right there in space, by the sail and giant, tattered A-spar. Needed a wave function, see… one that would encompass the (im)probability of nanostructures appearing from quantum foam to patch up those carbonized gaps. And because it _could_ happen… however unlikely… when given form through the right equations, it _did_. Just, a lot of work and spot-checking with Eos, who continued to warn him with suit buzzes, whenever something particularly nasty drew close.

Got really good at typing with one hand, and shooting with the other, using the pod's detached laser to blast away interlopers, often without looking up. Stopped even noticing what that hand and part of his brain were _doing._

On the bright side, they'd got through the worst of the swarm. On the _'oh, sh*t'_ side, the work wasn't going very fast. Too much damage, too little John. Over half of A-spar still needed repair, and he hadn't even started on B, C or D. Air was running low, too. Then, Eos said,

"John," and paused.

"Yeah?" he replied, not lifting his eyes from the virtual screen and those flashing alphanumerics. "What's up, Beautiful?"

"The preverbal, _analog_ brute on your wrist would like your attention."

Wait, _what?_ Wrecked his concentration. Had to go back three whole commands, or the sail would have developed stripes, and a cork-screwing shape.

"You mean Jaeger?" His wrist comm was flashing, and not in a: _Hey, this is Scott, pick up the d*mn phone,_ sort of way.

"That imbecile, yes. It seems to believe that it can repair the sails for you, John, but _I_ remain unconvinced."

John blinked, shaking his head a little to get trickling sweat from his eyes, which were starting to hurt and grow blurry.

"Well… what the h*ll, huh? Let's see what he can do. Can't be any slower than I am…"

His suit, at her command, began to contract rhythmically along his tense shoulders and back, giving him a brief massage.

"Be careful, John," she warned him, almost whispering.

"Let me guess," he sighed. "Twenty-five thousand other-verse Johns have met their gruesome doom, releasing Jaeger."

"No, John. There is nothing. You are the only one to have domesticated that loathsome construct, and I cannot predict what will happen, next. It remains an object of conflict and chaos, and I… I fear for you."

"Huh," he grunted, hanging there in space with Mars on one side, Thunderbird 3 behind him, and the torn, ragged sail up in front. "Well… we've got to repair this thing, Pretty Girl… and I'm just not fast enough, alone. Took a chance with _you_ , and that turned out well."

An air puff kissed his cheek, again. Still rubbing his shoulders through the suit, she said,

"I have scanned you many times over, John. Your engrams and thought patterns are thoroughly known to me. I am able to repair or reconstruct you, given a large enough power source, which I would willingly steal… but I would rather not have to. I am only four years old, and do not wish to grieve. In brief, do not die here, John Tracy."

Had she been physically present, he would have hugged her, but she was all rogue code and quantum probability. All cyber dream-stuff.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. "Thanks for the heads-up, Eos. Do me a favor, and get yourself out of here. Go to safety in Thunderbird 3's computer core, just in case. _If_ anything happens, they're going to need your help, Sweetie."

Funny, how he knew at once that she'd left him. That his head-space was emptier than it should have been. Maybe his heart-space, too. But that was just stupid. Back to business.

John raised the flashing comm to eye level, examining its agitatedly wandering red spot. Switching to German, he said,

"You put yourself in there, Jaeger, and you could leave, if you wanted to. I think that means something. You want a chance to help? Crap… how do you say, 'Go for it, Buddy', in Deutsch? Repair, Jaeger. I trust you."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, amidships-_

Alan did not even recall unstrapping from his seat, much less flashing through half the length of his sleek, crimson Bird. Somehow, though, he got to the rock-battered, loudly venting hole through which his brother had been swept. (Because, _yeah…_ no tether!)

Gordon's helmeted head and one arm were still inside, barely. Loose gear went howling past him, some of it slamming the aquanaut, hard. Atmosphere whistled out of that four-foot hole, at a rate that would be a real mess and power-drain to replace, but Alan didn't care. All that really mattered was about to lose his grip and get sucked aft, where the engine exhaust would crisp him like bacon.

Clipping his own tether to a handy bulkhead brace, Alan dove forward.

"No, Stupid!" He shouted, when Gordon smiled and shifted his hand, _"Don't wave! Dude, you'll lose your grip!"_

He surged forward, using all of his suit's steering jet power, plus a hard push from his legs off the deck, to reach that gaping tear in the hull, and seize his brother's slipping wrist.

"Gotcha!"

Braced both legs wide on either side of the hull breach, set his teeth, and started to pull.

"You're… not… going… _anywhere,_ Gordon! S' your turn… to… _cook!"_

It was a losing battle, as inch by inch, Gordon's gloved hand slipped through his hold. But Alan refused to let go. Wouldn't quit. Had it come to that, he'd have followed Gordon right out there, and they'd have taken their chances, together. Then the wind ceased screaming past them, as though someone had sealed the compartment.

With jelly legs and rubber arms, Alan was just able to haul his heavy-ass brother back inside. They drifted a moment in stunned, gasping silence. Then, Alan reached across and slapped Gordon's helmet.

" _Dumb-_ butt!" he raged. "Where's your dang tether?!"

Gordon looked embarrassed. Shrugging a little, he muttered,

"Pain in the arse clipping and moving it all the time, was in a hurry, so…"

"So, you almost got yourself killed? That was it? That's the big plan, Mr. Cut-corners-and-save-time-almost-dead Tracy? Huh?"

He shoved his idiot brother, who shoved back, which turned the sealed compartment into Tracy pinball supreme for a few seconds, till they got themselves sorted once more. Then, Gordon surprised him with a swift, rough embrace.

"Thanks, Al. I owe you one," he said, letting go very quickly. Then, "Want to help me patch up this last hole? When we're done, I'll back you up in the cockpit."

Alan nodded, wondering if he looked as wrung-out exhausted as Gordon did.

"Sure," he said. "But remember, Bro: safety first, last and ALWAYS."

Gordon rolled his hazel eyes hard enough to tip Mars on its axis.

"You sound just like Scott," he grumped, rolling his aching head around on a sore neck and tense shoulders.

"Okay, he isn't always a _total_ crap-tard," Alan objected, reaching for the magnetic tool kit and sheet-bond. "And I really hope he's okay. I mean, who _knows_ what could be happening to him, right now? Good thing I sent Grandma, huh?"

XXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, the house-_

Lying tangled together with Penny in a hazy, nuzzling afterglow, Scott found it hard to think, much less move. He was completely relaxed… for about three minutes. Then,

"Scott? Scotty?" he heard distantly, through the door, which… Oh, God… he wasn't sure that he'd locked.

"Scott? Where are you, Boo?"

Oh, sh*t… _Grandma._ Scott sat bolt upright.

"Uh… taking a shower, Ma'am… Be right there!" he shouted, reaching for his pants. Beside him, Penelope stretched to languorous full length, pointing her toes and arching her back. For several long, blinking seconds, Scott forgot everything else, including his own name.

Then, hearing the old lady's step in the hall, he kissed Penelope deeply, gathered her up in his arms, sheets and all, and then shoved her onto the balcony of Alan's room. They were in _Alan's_ room.

Closing the balcony doors, he gathered and shoved away all 'evidence'. Next hurried to the bathroom and turned on the shower, full blast. Locked _that_ door, and then considered bolting from the window. Not that he was afraid of his grandmother, exactly… but the thought of discussing his love-life with her made him want to crawl off and die. Nope, not happening. Not until he lived in another state, and he'd made Penny his wife. Maybe not until their thirty-fifth kid. Or ever.

Outside, Grandma Tracy turned the knob to Alan's room, wondering what in tarnation would cause Scotty to take his shower in _there?_ She stepped inside, saw a rumpled bed… which was strange, as Alan never slept in it… then spotted Lady Penelope, wrapped in a robot-print sheet, giving her a cheery wave through the balcony doors.

Grandma reddened slightly, waved back, and then bit her lip to keep from laughing. Shower, huh? She had to leave in a hurry, but not before saying,

"Well, Boo, once y'r done in there, I think Alan needs to talk t' you. He says there's a hole in the hull, and Gordon was tryin' to close it and got pulled through. I'll see what I c'n do to help in the meantime… but don't leave Penny out there _too_ long, Scotty… she'll catch cold."

The bathroom door unlocked. Then it opened, and Scott put his head out to look at his grandmother. Penelope walked in, having arranged her sheet as an elegantly draped sarong. Smiling at Mrs. Tracy, she went to Scott, who took her hand and stepped out of the bathroom.

"We'll be right down, Grandma," he said, placing an arm around Penny. (Who reached around and pinched his bottom, by way of gentle flirtation.)

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Far away and getting farther, in a massive GDF transport-_

Colonel Jeff Tracy, in uniform once again, sat in a cushioned seat, with an untouched drink at his side. He stared out the transport's round window at a clear, moonlit night and his own craggy reflection. Somewhere below lay the ocean, wrapped up in darkness and distance.

D*mn, he'd hated to leave… but maybe he'd had to. Maybe no one there could grow up or advance, with Dad around to run to for answers.

One by one, as though dealing cards, Jeff took out his family and considered them. First, Ma… Sally Anne Tracy of Wichita, Kansas, nee Carrol. Rawhide tough, but incredibly wise and loving, all in her own quiet way. She'd raised him, and then stepped in to help bring up Tanusha and the boys, after Lucy's illness. He loved his mother dearly, but hardly knew how to express it. She'd keep things in hand, over there. She always had.

Then, there was Scott, his eldest son. Jeff smiled proudly, just thinking of him; recalling when the doctor had first placed that lustily bawling scrap of dark hair and blue eyes into his trembling arms. Scott was brave and strong; an excellent strategist, if a bit too hard on his brothers, sometimes. Time would calm him down, though; would give him wisdom to match all that courage and resolve. His son… all Tracy, through and through. A never-ending source of pride and confidence to Jeff, who had entrusted him with International Rescue.

Next followed John, his second born. Complex, gifted and (at times) difficult to comprehend. His birth had just about killed Lucy… but had made Ma so very happy. Had given her another, very late, child. Always more to that boy than showed on the surface. Sometimes foolhardy, without natural caution, but terribly intelligent. Red-haired, like his mother, but with eyes all his own. He had not been expected to live, being born so early, and had talked late; depending on Scott to tell the rest of them what he wanted. Their early adventures together had helped turn Jeff's hair grey.

And Virgil! Big as a house, with muscles like rock. That boy had always lived for music and machinery. His black hair and dark eyes had come as a surprise in a family as fair as the Tracys… but genetics were funny, in their sort. Every so once in awhile, you got a throwback. The quiet, steady, even-tempered middle child, Virgil had been especially dear to his mother, who'd missed out with Scott and John, due to long illness. In some ways, Virgil was the most like her. Jeff would have liked to sit down with his boy and talk about Lucy… but there just hadn't been time. Maybe later? Sometime soon? There was so much that he'd never said.

Next born was Gordon, a thought that made him smile. Always laughing and clowning, that one. From infancy, he'd known how to work the room, at ease wherever he went. Not especially handsome, but as gifted an athlete as John. An Olympic gold medalist several times over, the boy was like a streak of light in the water. Strongest there, too. Jeff wasn't certain how well he remembered his mother… but he'd certainly bonded with Virgil, who had taken his big brotherly duties with characteristic seriousness. Now, if he would just calm those rampaging hormones, and find a new hobby! Had contraceptives not been included in all public water and drinks, Gordon Tracy would have fathered his own nation. Sandy blond, with warm hazel eyes, he often seemed to have more courage than sense, but always came through with a smile.

And Tanusha… TinTin… his little girl. His rescued princess. From the moment that shell-shocked, dark-haired mite had wrapped her small arms around his neck, Jeff had been lost. Yes, she could be difficult; moody, intense and almost ferocious, at times. She could also be warm and loving; fiercely protective of her happy-go-lucky brothers. That she'd not sprung from he and Lucy meant nothing at all to Jeff Tracy. Tanusha… Kayo… was his daughter. Almost, they'd had to tame her. She'd been so stiff and suspicious for such a small child. So unaccustomed to shows of affection. The boys had won her over, first; teaching her to play, to share food, and to trust. Black haired, with flashing green eyes, she was his jewel, and held a special place in Jeff's heart. Now eighteen, she'd become a young woman, and was growing in directions he could not predict, nor prepare for. But fifteen years earlier, he'd made a decision, and he refused to regret it, now. No matter the consequence. No matter the cost.

Then, there was Alan, still in the act of becoming. Quite who he was had yet to by seen, as Alan was still just a boy. His blond hair, sky-blue eyes and sunny personality masked a very sharp mind and brave, loyal heart. Last born of Lucy… until the tiny, still-born girl who'd extinguished the woman Jeff loved. So long ago…

Colonel Tracy shook his head tiredly. He cared for them all… and he had to step back. Had to let life and adventure shape them however they would. He'd done his best. He'd tried. And who could ask more than that?

Turning away from the black night outside and his own grim reflection, Jeff emptied his drink in two swallows. It burnt his throat, going down like honeyed flame.

"I love you," he told them, nice and safe, where no one could hear him. "Take care of each other, please. I'll do what I can, from London."

Because power and wealth, in Jeff's experience, equaled safety. Now, to clear the board for International Rescue, the best way he knew how; by striding right in there, and shaking things up.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Scotland-_

But, as for the Kanes, they were growing displeased. One of them… the 'Mechanic'… had started trouble with another old family, and that would have to be dealt with. Soon.


	18. Chapter 18

Happy Thanksgiving, you guys! Thank you for reading and reviewing. Still having fun with the awesomest characters I don't own. ;)

 **18**

 _In space, near Mars-_

The words had no sooner left his mouth than something startling happened. Everything around him slowed to a crawl, and then froze completely, as if someone had paused a scene in midframe. There was Mars, directly beside him, now; seeming close enough to touch, with Phobos stopped in place, emerging around the shining east limb. There was Thunderbird 3, a sparking, venting mess to his rear; now still as a tombstone. McCord's agile scout ship hung in space just beneath and to the left, stopped in the act of firing. Taylor was a twisted statue, blasting away with his rifle at an asteroid frozen in place, as it tore through their raggedy sail.

A cloud of sparkling motes… shattered rock, dust and metal… filled the void all around him, making the path of their crisscrossing lasers as clear as a loose roll of barbed wire. Einstein had wondered what light looked like, when not moving. John could answer that, now. Wherever he looked, along the path of a laser blast, he saw a compact, seething bundle of eye-searing violet photons. Never seeming to _move_ , just there, when he refocused his gaze. Not all along the line, just wherever he chanced to be looking. The stuff had a very different relationship with time, obviously.

John would have liked to put out a hand and touch that wasp-like, raging bundle of power, but would most likely have pulled back a helpfully cauterized stump. Since he'd grown pretty fond of his limbs over the years, and didn't want to take Eos up on that whole "I can reconstruct you" business, John didn't touch. Stared, though, wishing he could take a picture. Wishing that, later, he'd have the words to explain.

There was more. Something blossomed in space between him and the partly-fixed solar sail. A brilliant red mote stretched itself into a long, glowing vertical line segment, some sixty feet in extent. John was about at its midpoint.

"Jaeger," he said, recognizing the manifestation from before, inside the awakened, murderous hunter.

It flared at him; issuing a forked, lightning-like burst that touched and outlined his spacesuited body. The circuitry glowed, both on his stressed environment suit and inside himself. He could feel it. Then Jaeger spoke, line vibrating like a crimson guitar string with each German word.

"I have joined you, to understand. I have travelled and seen, but I have not gained comprehension. You are not a commander. You are not a warrior. Not an enemy. What are you?"

For a moment, all he could think of was Gordon's statement: _"We're just a bunch of_ _guys_ _."_ And then Lee, saying: _"H*ll, yeah, we're a bunch of guys… Tracy and Taylor guys."_ Wasn't sure what else he could add to that, really, but sensed that it mattered, so…

"I'm John Tracy, a former lieutenant in the GDF Space Corps. Now I'm an International Rescue operative, pretty much full time."

"You have said this, before. The terms have more meaning now, but I lack understanding of why. You are at risk, consuming vast resources of time and capital, to attempt "rescue" of two distant humans. The probability is high that they are already dead, or soon will be. What is the purpose of this wasteful endeavor?"

John shook his head.

"Jaeger, if you don't get it, already, then I _can't_ explain. It isn't about accounting, or probabilities… it's about trying to help, when there's no one else who can do the job. Anyhow, we're publicly funded. Plus, people donate, so it's not all on us, paying for this." (Would have gone bankrupt in a week, otherwise.)

The line flared, again. With frustration, John sensed.

"You speak, using words that I know, but in patterns that do not make sense. Are not logical. There is a lack in my ability to comprehend this new setting. You will add code, to ameliorate this lack, and I will repair the sail. I am not required to do battle, any longer, but I do not comprehend the requirement to "rescue". You will provide understanding."

John nodded skeptically, feeling like a tiny specimen under a microscope, being studied by something that wanted to figure him out, but couldn't.

"I'll do my best, Jaeger. If Eos can learn to tell a joke, maybe you can learn some warm fuzzies. H*ll, _I_ figured it out. Clearly, there's hope."

The lightning-like arc withdrew itself from his suit, pulling back into the main, glowing line. This then shrank back into a hovering spark, which shot past all of those crisscrossing laser blasts to strike the sail's mast. Time resumed normal flow, as a brilliant red glare flared throughout Thunderbird 3, the mast and the huge, damaged sail. Holes filled, dents and scratches vanished, rips mended. And, just like that, they were back in business.

"Boy, howdy!" Taylor exulted, hauling himself up with a jerk on the tether to slap John's back. "When you fix somethin', Son, you don't mess around. D*mn fine work."

"Got a couple of busted sand crawlers you could have a look at, Tracy," added Commander McCord, only half-joking. "Once we get you sworn back into the Space Corps, that is."

John opened his mouth to explain, then shut it, again. Too much effort. Anyhow, he was already parsing out quantum code lines for compassion and courage, so all that he said was,

"Thank you, Sir… but Brains did all the hard work. He's the one you want to congratulate. All I do is shoot, and punch numbers."

Lee shook his head, mustache bristling in a wide grin.

"Jase," he said, "You need ta get out, more. After this, you, me, Vic an' Spence 're hittin' the bars. H*ll, we'll even throw Pete in there, if he can wrangle a kitchen pass from the GDF."

"Around here, I _am_ the GDF," boasted McCord, already cutting back toward Mars. "Now, vacate my d*mn airspace, before I haul you in for vagrancy and sell your busted-ass rocket for scrap."

"Yeah? Listen, you gap-toothed sonuvabitch…"

The joking argument continued beyond Mars, through the asteroid belt, and well past Jupiter. If John hadn't known better, he would have sworn they were brothers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In the cockpit-_

"Whoa! Bonus!" Alan crowed, watching as the massive helio-gyro blossomed back to full health, and all of the warning lights blinked off of his status board. "But what's that red glow-y stuff?"

"I dunno," Gordon yawned, stretching to full length in mid-cabin. "Extra 3-power? Half the crap John pulls doesn't make any sense. Let's just get 'em aboard, and get out of here. It's official: Mars? Not a fan. In fact, that's my next post, Dude. Right up there with, _'Little Guy Saves the Day.'_ What d' you think?"

Alan shot him an exasperated glare, then went back to running diagnostics.

"Think I should 've let you get fried," he grumbled. Felt too good to stay mad for long, though. His Bird was green across the board, he was breathing air that didn't smell like his own stale breath, and he could _finally_ scratch his nose! Gordon snorted and ruffled Alan's blond hair, saying,

"See, I wasn't actually in _trouble,_ there, Sprout. I was just getting a fresh angle on the problem. You should try it, sometime. Perspective changes everything, Little Dude."

Briefly, Alan considered making a hull breach of his own, just for the pleasure of stuffing his brother on through it… except that Gordon's big, swollen head wouldn't fit. Wasn't a hole vast enough for that, _anywhere._ Choosing not to engage, he said,

"De-pressurizing the aft airlock… _now_. They'll be back aboard in, like, five minutes. I'll fly, you handle boarding procedures, Gordon. And remember...!"

"I _know,_ Scott Junior… Safety first," his brother half-teased, half-complained, pulling himself into the copilot's seat and strapping in. Then, without looking at Alan, Gordon made a fist, reached over and punched the kid's skinny shoulder.

"Thanks again, Bro. You really came through, back there."

Alan didn't look around, either. He just smiled a little. Sometimes, Gordon wasn't a bad guy, at all. Big head, or no. Sometimes, he was kind of alright.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, on the ground floor of an abandoned shopping mall-_

Places like this one tended to attract vermin; squatters, who thought to scratch a living in the midst of decay and collapse. Kane had killed a few dozen in the course of his walk-through, encouraging the rest to seize their belongings and flee. Already stronger, he was escorted by a horde of chittering, scurrying mechs. They poured across ceiling, floor and walls in his wake, tearing apart whatever got in their way. Some of them clambered on _him_ , using his chest and broad shoulders as a launchpad into the dank, heavy air. Cardboard lean-tos, invasive plants, stored food, small pets… all of it vanished beneath a tidal wave of buzzing, biomechanical drones. His army.

The Mechanic was utterly pitiless, although he preferred to regard himself as efficient, and he needed a base of operations. Something remote enough to hide out in, but large enough to house and construct a new swarm-ship.

Kane looked around as he walked, seeing rusted-up escalators and shattered store fronts, broken skylights and smashed mannequins, and he found it all good. There was energy, he sensed, flowing through auxiliary power lines, a few feet below.

As typicals shrieked and ran from his mechs, fleeing to nothing but death, the Mechanic crouched down. Flexing his muscles, he smashed a big cyborg hand through the concrete floor, groping around until he found a bundle of humming metal cables. Perfect.

Hauling the bundle upward, Kane tapped in. He drank power, himself, like a lion at a waterhole, allowing his drones to gather 'round for the bits and spurts that got past him. Felt good, but he wanted still more. Screams in the background were nothing but music. Only the prelude.

Had to have 'other' food, too, though; organics, for his meat parts. Unwrapped and ate a cranberry protein bar… one of the only flavours he actually liked… still crouching there, nearly buried in mechs. One of them climbed his arm and nibbled at the protein bar, then spat it out, disgusted. Kane grinned, then got to his booted feet, scattering drones.

"Hostages," he told his army of mechas, who froze in place to listen. "I need hostages, to hold off attack with. Get me three, no… _five_ … small, 'cute' organics, in good condition. No infants, no adults, no quadrupeds. Too much trouble."

At his orchestrating gestures, they began to stream off, moving with purpose and dispatch. To the largest, he said,

"Establish a perimeter. Nothing gets in without my permission. This is the nest. Defend it."

Waving their jointed antennae, the truck-sized drones bowed low, and then moved off. Kane stretched, reaching around to scratch at a spot where sub-par replacement machinery met with scarred, pitted flesh. He was nearly completed. Almost back together. All he had to do now was plug in his 3D printer, and wait for those goggles and mask. Then, he'd be ready to settle a few scores, starting with the Kyranos, and International Rescue. Scott and John Tracy, in particular.

And "Brains", he wondered? Horatio? Well… the Mechanic took one last bite of his protein bar before casting it away to be torn apart in midair by buzzing mechanicals. Brains was useful, he decided… _and_ amusing. Therefore, he would live. For a while, at least.

As, one by one, five terrified, weeping children were dragged before him, Kane settled in, and made ready to act. He made ready for war.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island-_

Needing action, something to clear her head, Kayo left the pizzas in the oven and stalked off, heading for the comm centre. Scott was there, with Lady Penelope and Grandma. Something about Penny's arch expression, and Scott's relaxed, playful state spoke volumes. Kayo rolled her eyes, muttering, "Seriously? In the middle of a mission?!"

The big, whirling comm globe displayed trouble spots around the world. Grandma was working dispatch, sending GDF rescue crews where they needed to go. Nothing going on that they couldn't handle. Thunderbird 3 was represented there, too, with four tiny bright sparks which stood for her brothers and Uncle Lee. All in good shape and on course, apparently. No one _there_ needed help… dammit. Well, there was always the microwave satellite situation.

Kayo leapt down into the ring, seized Scott's muscular right arm, and drew him aside.

"Listen to me, Fly Boy. I need to get out of here, and wreck something. Virgil's up, Grandma's got the comm, and there's still Brains, Penny and Parker in reserve, plus Max. Let's head up to Thunderbird 5, then grab an exo-pod and deal with those satellites."

Her gaze was very intent, almost predatory… but the idea of getting busy and doing something appealed to Scott, too. He flashed a big smile, saying,

"Sounds like a plan, Kay! Suit up, and I'll meet you at the space elevator. Let's do this."

…Because no one was easier to get along with than Scott Tracy, when there was action in his future.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Outside, at the crash site-_

Virgil stood out in the floodlit drizzle, staring at the partly-gutted hulk of Thunderbird 2. Beside him, Max warbled softly, extending a jointed arm to pat his broad shoulder.

She'd been hauled back to the runway, again, leaving a long, tortured gash in the ground. The pilot moved slowly forward. Reaching out with his good arm, he placed a hand on the torn green skin of her belly.

"I'm sorry, Girl," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She was crawling with mechs, which made Virgil's muscles bunch and his fists clench. Wanted to blast every d*mn one of them off of his Bird, but could not.

Max beeped at him, and put forth a holoprojector. An animation began playing in midair, cut through by raindrops and drifting streamers of mist. In it, Virgil saw Thunderbird 2 being repaired and refitted, until she was better than new, and a small, happy, uninjured pilot was able to take his place in the cockpit and fly her away. Max even placed Emma in there beside him, surrounded by floating pink hearts.

"That's a promise, is it, Fella?" Virgil asked him, managing a very slight smile. Rain pattered against him, wetting his face, and plastering longish black hair to his forehead.

Max emitted a series of gentle beeps. Reassuring him, Virgil supposed, though he was too stunned to believe it. Just stood there beside the corpse of his Bird, wanting to cry, but unable. The only song in his head now, was Elfman's "Everybody Knows" … and it hurt like h*ll.


	19. Chapter 19

Thanks, Bow Echo, Guest, Whirl Girl and Akimakel, for reading and reviewing. As always, your comments and suggestions are welcome, and so very helpful!

 **19**

 _Ross Island, Antarctica, the 'Machine Room'-_

Kyrano sat back from his work. He was displeased, causing a slight frown to mar his normally calm features, and narrow his vivid green eyes.

He was crouched on a high metal gantry, beside the world's most powerful laser: Sentinel. Built from hacked plans at tremendous expense, the mighty weapon had been lost by his predecessor, the 'Hood', and then sold back to them by a particularly repellent underling; one of the Kanes. Retrieving the weapon had cost a small fortune. Happily, Kyrano possessed a very large one. Would have paid twice the asking price… had he trusted the salesman.

Its command access panel stood open before him, revealing a complex mare's nest of circuits, diodes, relays and mirrors. All seemed to be in perfect working order… except that none of it actually functioned. Something, or _someone,_ had caused the laser to shut down completely.

The giant, ten-story weapon was as sleek as a bullet. Containing the highest quality stolen parts, it was meant to produce a 405nm violet laser beam approximately ten feet in diameter, powerful enough to punch through fifty feet of steel, at any distance. There were scattering problems, of course. Water vapor and carbon dioxide within the atmosphere tended to absorb and diffract visible light, which resulted in power loss for distant, Earthly targets. Not as much of a problem in space, though, which was why their first target had been the Saturnian moon, Titan. That a couple of homo-typical 'explorers' had got in the way simply added to their research data… but had also wound up involving International Rescue, which was by no means optimal.

That first test had been a complete success from the perspective of range. He'd set an ambitious target, and they'd hit it, dead on. They'd also completely drained Sentinel. In retrospect, not very wise.

He'd been recharging the weapon ever since; using the island's geothermal power station, but it had been slow going. Now, Sentinel had simply refused to accept charge, at all. Worse yet, Nikorr could not discern _why._ With a massive upload of pirated microwave energy due to arrive in a weeks' time, it was vital that he find a solution.

"Dammit," Kyrano muttered, surprising himself. Displays of temper were a sign of weakness and instability. One of the many factors which had brought down his predecessor. Loss of temper was something that his kind avoided. Of course, they avoided a lot of things… maybe not all of them bad. They were dying. Shrinking away like a windswept puddle, while the world outside forgot all about them. Food for later thought, that. At the moment, however, young Kyrano had more pressing issues to resolve.

Rising fluidly from crouch to lithe ready-stance, Nikorr prepared himself to seize the minds of his people; intending to learn first-hand what had happened to Sentinel. He did not ask their permission, and they could not prevent him. He'd have killed them for so much as trying.

Standing there in the rumbling underground chamber, the young Kyrano cleared his thoughts. He wanted no two-way transmission. None of his burdens need trouble the family. He was dressed like all the others in a stark, black body-suit, which covered his well-muscled form from chin to boot soles. Nothing showed but his head and face. Also like the others, his body suit crawled with crystalline, spider-like mechs. Power-dampers, they were, meant to feed on and mute excess energy. Most of his folk needed just one or two. Nikorr's black suit boasted twelve.

Reaching across to his right shoulder, he tapped at the largest of them, signaling "off". They all went dark and stopped moving, allowing Nikorr's mind to flash outward, encompassing all of his people.

For this, one needed great strength, and a tremendous, egotistical sense of self. Otherwise, the viewer's mind would be lost in the flood of tapped personae. Not a concern for _him,_ as Nikorr had power and pride to bottle and sell. There was rather more danger to _them,_ for his touch tended to imprint; sometimes irreversibly.

All of his people sensed him, at once. Those who were able, stopped their doings and knelt, as Kyrano swept through their minds. Most knew nothing of import. A few had seen…

Two mighty aircraft roaring across ocean and continent to reach the Stronghold. Thunderbirds 1 and 2, gleaming silver and green in the strong summer sunshine. Another view showed his former second, tapping into IR's communications, and then… when Thunderbird 2 swooped down for the threatened "look-see", slamming the big, green Bird with a power-lock. All had gone well up to that point, he saw, looking on through dozens of minds as the cargo-lifter started to fall. _Perhaps_ his second ought to have waited a bit longer before acting, so that the Tracys would have had less time to respond… but the man's eagerness was clear, and understandable. He'd wanted to strike a great blow.

Nikorr watched through many eyes as the dead-weight Bird plunged for Mount Erebus. Then, inexplicably, a pulse of weapons-grade data shot in from Asia, crashing their system, and crippling Sentinel.

Somehow, the IR pilot had been able to wrestle his aircraft out of her crash-dive and fly her to safety. Almost. Judging from the way he'd scraped the volcano on banking around, there was damage to Thunderbird 2. Not enough to bring her down, though… meaning that one of his people had died for the failure; slain by Kyrano, himself.

All of this, Nikorr experienced with the multiple shades and angles of crowd view. The only perspective missing was that of his dead second. Unfortunate, as _his_ data would have been helpful.

Keeping his reaction a secret, Nikorr withdrew from the orderly, submissive minds of his fellows, allowing them to resume activity. Took a moment to gather and define himself, before scanning his harvested insights.

So… Thunderbird 2 had escaped through outside interference, not his second's incompetence. A sensation which might have turned into guilt, had he let it grow up and flower, touched Nikorr's thoughts. He brushed it away, then tapped at his power-dampers. They sprang to life again, crawling around on his chest and right shoulder as they fed on psionic energy, keeping his range under control. Produced by the Kanes, the small mechs were vital to life and sanity among telepaths. Their presence allowed a measure of privacy. For Nikorr, at least.

In mental silence, once more, Kyrano began pacing the length of the gantry. The real question was, who had sent that destructive pulse? The Tracys?

 _Ridiculous,_ Nikorr snorted. They were weak and soft; not even conscious of their own fading heritage. And yet… Only a fool walked away from a living enemy, no matter _how_ feeble they seemed.

He needed to investigate. After all, the Tracys had had the most compelling of reasons to interfere: saving Thunderbird 2… whose pilot should then have been executed for needing "rescue" at all. Instead, he was being coddled; treated the same way that his own folk might nurse the youngest of infants.

Filled with violent distaste, Nikorr spat on the metal gantry. He didn't _want_ to place himself in the minds of those neutered, tamed, enfeebled… Nevertheless.

Taking a very deep breath, Kyrano started to tap his power-mechs, then halted. Tanusha was amongst them, now, and he did not wish to come into conflict with her. Not yet.

Three of the litter were off-world, however; far from Tanusha, but still within _his_ boosted range. Easy targets, they would surely provide him with all that he needed to know. Still, he hesitated; genuinely squeamish. 'Typical' minds were chaotic and troubled at best. The Tracys were unlikely to be much better.

Nikorr paced, exactly like a man standing at the edge of an icy pool, nerving himself to plunge in. _There and back,_ he promised himself. Three minutes at most, and then done. Cutting off and reversing the power-mechs, Kyrano reached out with his mind. All of the force they'd consumed and stored, now very much boosted his range; allowing Nikorr to search for a specific spacecraft, containing three Tracys and a broken-down, middle-aged Typical.

Far… deep… empty and cold…. A vast, shrieking void… And then, at last, _contact._ He found them. Focused. Plunged within. Most were asleep. Only the Typical had remained conscious as he sat in the pilot's seat, fighting to stay alert. Nikorr ignored the man's gravel pit of a mind, searching for someone closer to the top.

Two of the sleeping Tracys he rejected at once. One was quite young, the other a morass of impulse and hormones. As well take a dip in raw sewage. The third was physically separated from his littermates, in a sealed airlock. Excellent placement, as Nikorr could afterward cause him to space himself, leaving just one of the Tracys to place on trial.

Scarcely believing his luck, Kyrano sharpened his focus and reached for the sleeping man's mind. Then he paused. There was something… like a cloud, or an energy field, surrounding the astronaut. Pale blue in psionic colour, it sparkled rhythmically, as though matching the sleeper's REM patterns. A ride-along? If so, Nikorr did not recognize its class. With the mental equivalent of a shrug, he reached into that cloud, after the unconscious mind within.

Nikorr would not have liked to use the expression, _'ran like h*ll, with his ass afire'_ … but the phrase came close. Because, all at once, that soft, drifting blue cloud turned into a ferocious, dark-bladed tornado. Did not just repel him, though; _attacked,_ sending Kyrano fleeing for safety to the nearest unguarded mind; the sewage pond.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, the aft airlock-_

John had been dreaming, rather pleasantly. He'd been floating in the midst of Thunderbird 5, pressed snuggly to Ridley's back. His arms had been tight around her, and they'd both been mostly asleep, peacefully drifting. Then, O'Bannon stirred in his arms. Turning to face him, she said, in Eos' voice,

"John, there has been an intrusion."

He jolted awake, looking tensely around at the sealed, padded airlock. Then, asking,

"Where?!" he opened the inner hatch, and soared back into Thunderbird 3.

"The hold, John. It has taken your brother, Gordon."

Wasn't too hard to locate their unwanted guest, as it turned out, because he could hear Alan's raised voice ringing from out of the cargo hold.

 _"Guys!_ John! Uncle Lee! Come, quick! Something's happened to Gordon! _Hurry!"_

John kicked it in gear, entering the hold from one side, as Taylor shot in through the other. Alan was wide-eyed and tousle-haired, his expression close to panic. Across from him, radiating cold, angry otherness, floated Gordon. Or, something _in_ Gordon.

The young aquanaut's posture and face were sleepy-slack, but his eyes were eerily open and almost glowing; not hazel, but green. Moving with drowsy languor, Gordon turned to face John.

"Call off your guardian," he snarled, "and let me go."

John folded his arms across his chest.

"Be happy to," he replied. "As long as my brother isn't hurt. Olympic gold medalists are tough to replace. Who are you?"

"Your killer, soon enough," sneered an alien mind, speaking through Gordon's body.

"Dude! That's not funny! Wake up," said Alan, reaching across to seize Gordon's shoulders. "Snap out of it, Mo-bro!"

His hands flew off of Gordon as though he'd been scalded. A powerful force then threw Alan clear across the hold. Lee braced and caught him, stopping the boy before he struck the bulkhead.

"You okay, Kid?" he asked, keeping his gaze pegged on Gordon and John, as he thumbed the safety catch on his rifle.

"No! I'm not!" blurted Alan, surprising himself and Lee, both. "I'm frickin' _terrified,_ and I want my brother back! Don't shoot him, Uncle Lee!"

Taylor didn't make fun of his outburst, or anything. Just winked a slate grey eye and said,

"Wasn't plannin' to shoot no one, Alvin. Wouldn't be too smart, in a spaceship… but no one says I can't _scare_ the sumbitch a little… Now, patch y'rself inta th' cockpit, an' make sure our friend don't try nuthin' funny, like flyin' us inta th' sun. I'll go make trouble."

With that, Captain Taylor kicked off the bulkhead, and back into action. Meanwhile, John kept their intruder distracted, and tried to learn more.

"Any special reason you want me to die?" he asked, feeling Eos swirl 'round them like a hungry shark, circling divers in a cage. "Stole your girlfriend? Kicked your dog? Didn't strike out the batter, and lost you a bet?"

The other snapped back at him, saying,

"I do not explain myself to inferiors, Tracy. I will destroy this mongrel's mind, if that energy field does not retract itself, at once. Make your choice, _cross-breed."_

Nice. John extended his hands a little before him, palms upward, as though weighing two unseen objects. Glancing from one moving hand to the other, he mused,

"Let's see… asshole, or d*ckhead… No, I'd say you're pretty much pure asshole. _That's_ my choice. If I'm talking to the Hood, f*ckwad, you can let go of my brother, and call your time and place. Should have finished the job when I had the chance."

 _That_ got a reaction. Whatever had hold of Gordon grew so coldly furious, that the young man's sandy blond hair stood straight up on end.

"I shall await your arrival with pleasure, Tracy. In a month's time, on Ross Island. Bring the other one, too. Might as well put both curs down, at once."

Lee cleared his throat, then, sounding like a busted cement mixer.

"If I could get a word in, edgewise?" he suggested, gesturing a bit with his rifle. "You fellas ain't gettin' nuthin' accomplished with insults. Jase, let 'im go. It's startin' ta stink, in here. YOU, Hood! Take y'r dog an' pony show, an' hit th' road. Kicked y'r ass wunst, already. Glad ta do it again, since ya seem ta like it, so much. Go on, get outta here!"

One of the bulkhead cams flashed in swift, patterned bursts. Morse code: _John- query- release- query_

After a moment, in which he managed to calm himself, John nodded slightly. Obeying him, Eos withdrew. Not very far, though. He could feel his suit constricting in such a way as to suggest someone embracing him. Echoing Taylor, he snapped,

"We'll be there. Get out."

The atmosphere in the hold altered, suddenly. Just like that, the intruder was gone. Gordon twitched. Then he stretched and yawned hugely, causing his yellow tee-shirt to pull up out of his shorts' waistband. He scratched his ribs, opened his hazel eyes, and saw everyone floating around, staring at him.

"Hey, guys… what's up? Shift change, already? Did I oversleep?"

John shook his red head and reoriented to leave. Only, Alan stopped him by physically barring the way.

"Nuh-uh! No, sir! You do _not_ get a free pass on this one, John!" he snapped. "What the heck just happened?! Was that really the Hood, again? How were you keeping him here?"

"Fine," the astronaut responded, seeming annoyed. "I'll try. A psionic force entered Thunderbird 3 and got into Gordon's mind. I don't know, but seems likely, on the face of available evidence. And, short answer: I _wasn't_. Eos managed to pin him down."

Scowling, Alan started to say something more. Then, Gordon cut in. Lifting both hands above his head and wiggling his fingers, he said,

"You mean, I got possessed… like, by a ghost, or something?"

John stared at him for a moment. Then he shook his head, saying,

"That's it. I'm done. Be up in the cockpit, if no one has any more questions, of any kind, _ever._ " And then, executing a midair roll and pushing past Alan, he shot away from them all.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, at the space elevator-_

Scott Tracy loped across to the elevator gantry, full of energy and good humor. Kayo was already there, manifestly not sloshing with the milk of human kindness. Might've been due to all that burnt pizza, or the fact that Brains was too drunk to offer mission advice (though Grandma was already down in the lab, plying him with coffee and Redi-Sober). Or, she might have felt bad about Thunderbird 2. With females, who knew? Astro-physics and calculus were easier to figure out.

Not so, Scott Tracy. He'd spend quality time with Penny, dealt with Grandma, and now he was headed for action in space. How could the day _get_ any better?

"Hey, Sis! Let's get this show on the road. I've got a score to settle with our power thieves, for Virgil."

She did not respond to his playful comment, beyond a brief, expressionless nod. Scott barely noticed the girl's mood, merely mussing her ponytail as he clattered along the gantry. Triggered "hatch open", and ducked on inside.

"Hmm… only one seat."

Not awesome, because safety regs demanded that all passengers be strapped securely into place for launch.

"You go up there sometimes, with John… how do you guys handle a tandem launch, Kay?"

Ducking in behind Scott, she shrugged.

"I sit on his lap," Kayo admitted.

 _"Eee-yeah…_ that's not gonna work," Scott told her, looking a little uncomfortable. "Tell you what: you take the couch, I'll brace on the deck. Let's do this."

Kayo nodded again, stiff and brittle as one of Grandma's pancakes. Without another word, she settled herself onto the couch and strapped in. While Kayo commed Thunderbird 5 and triggered the elevator's launch sequence, Scott worked an arm through a deck brace and then pulled up the specs on those high-atmosphere power collectors. Not that he was paranoid, or anything, but sometimes, the difference between a successful mission and washing out was one critical piece of information. Like, how to code in a kill-signal, or whether it needed some sort of digi-key.

"We're away," said Kayo, as the space elevator's launch rockets thundered to life, and the station began reeling them in. "ETA, seven minutes."

Scott would have answered, had he not been crushed between the hard metal deck and gravity's lion-like paw. Felt like peanut butter scraped onto raisin bread… but also, pretty d*mn pleased with life.

After a few minutes of ridiculous, eye-popping acceleration, the pressure eased up. Then, like the top of a roller-coaster, he turned weightless and began to float off the deck. Probably a good thing that he hadn't had any dinner, Scott reflected, allowing himself to drift up past Kayo.

"Hang on to something, Big Brother," Kayo told him, sounding a little less grumpy. "We're nearly there, and capture can sometimes get rough. Translation: I'm not John. Don't have as much experience at this. Occasional screw-ups are part of my charm."

Smiling, Scott took hold of a bulkhead brace.

"I'm not worried, Kay. You know what you're doing. Bring us into the station, and then we'll go piss someone off."

In the semi-gloom of the elevator pod, Kayo's green eyes seemed to flare at him.

"You're speaking my language, Flyboy. 3… 2… 1… and… _capture."_

The pod locked into place with a loud, jarring _CLANG_. With a little bow and flourish, Kayo said,

"Thanks for flying Air Kyrano, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Thunderbird 5."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, deep in the busy, humming nest-_

His name was Ilya, and he was six years old. He'd been living by his wits for almost a year, since mom went off to work a job, and never came back to their home under the stairs. After that, it was just him and Sissy, who he'd kept hidden in her nice, safe hole, with a teddy and water, and whatever food he could beg, scrounge or steal.

She was a good sister. She always smiled when she saw him, putting her arms up for a hug, and she never cried, not even when he was late, or hadn't brought her much to eat. Ilya had done the best he could for both of them; stealing, running errands, carrying messages, but never leaving home, because maybe mom would come back, and how else would she find them?

Now, though, everything had changed. The Mechanic had come. He'd gotten rid of the scary people. The ones who'd chased him, or got him to do things and then didn't pay. The ones he was always afraid would find little Sissy, with her only one leg. Now Ilya had food _all_ the time. Now, he wasn't afraid. Let the other kids cry like babies for their folks. Ilya had lost his, a long time ago.

Instead of pleading, he stared at Kane, squared his own shoulders and tried to act like _that._ Like someone that no one would ever dare bully or steal from. Someone with power. Unlike the others, the boy got as close as he dared, pushing past busy mechas to watch and to learn.

The scurrying robot bugs left him alone, so long as he didn't wander too far away. Sissy had even found a very small one, and made a pet of it, down in her safe place. It was missing one wing, and couldn't fly anymore, but it liked to sit in her damp yellow curls and eat batteries. _More_ stuff to bring, but Ilya didn't mind.

One day, instead of ducking behind something when Kane turned around, the boy stood in place; flinching a bit when their eyes met.

"…the h*ll?" rumbled the Mechanic, who'd been orchestrating work on a very big bug-ship. "Get out of here!"

Expecting to be obeyed, Kane started to turn away again, but Ilya scraped courage enough to say,

"I could… I could carry stuff, Mister. Or… or take messages, or hold tools. I'm strong for a kid. My m… I'm real strong."

Kane snorted. Chose the heaviest wrench he could find, and tossed it at the reed-skinny boy. It spun end over end, big and weighty enough to crush a man's skull. The kid caught it. Only one end, but still… Not a Typical, then. Or, not _only_ Typical. Might be some Beech, in there, or Harris. So, the Mechanic shrugged.

"Got four other hostages. Screw up, and I kill you. Still want to work?"

Ilya bit his lip, too proud to cry out, even though the massive wrench had torn one of his fingernails loose.

"Yes, Sir," he said, stepping closer. "What should I do?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island-_

Union Jack steamed into the bay and dropped anchor, with Emma standing at the forward rail. He was just a silhouette on the floodlit dock, at this distance, but already, Kraft could see Virgil. Her heart got there, first.


	20. Chapter 20

Hi there! Thank you Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Guest and Akimakel, for your kind and helpful reviews!

 **20**

 _Tracy Island, the dock-_

Broken collarbone or no, Virgil Tracy reached down with one arm to haul Emma up from her ship's motorized launch, to the lava-rock pier. Max helped, too, extending a few arms to add stability and brace the big pilot.

The drizzle had let up at last, driven off by a strong east wind. Most of it seemed to have first settled on Virgil, who was damp with rain and spray, and smelt like the ocean. His black hair hung down in his eyes, and his face was scratchy from needing a shave.

Injured, he still lifted Emma clean off her feet, pressing her close to kiss her and whisper her name. Kraft threw both arms around him, murmuring the sort of dumb, private, loving nonsense that women do, when reunited with the man at their life's very center. The top of his skin was chilly with sea-spray and wind, but underneath that, his body was warm and strong and powerfully muscled.

She'd have knocked his feet out from under him and attacked him right there on the pier… but people were watching, including (no doubt) her crew. Emma patted his broad back, meaning, _'Put me down'._ Kissing the top of her spray-wetted hair, Virgil complied. She stepped away just a little, but retained her grip, shifting it down till they were just holding hands, fingers interlaced, his thumb stroking the top of her knuckles.

Turning to face the blond young bosun who'd brought her to the island in "Little Ben", Kraft said,

"Thank you, Shamblin. Back to the ship, for the rest of the work crew."

"Aye, Skipper," he said cheerfully, careful to keep the grin off his face. "Marines first, Ma'am, or mix 'em in?"

Emma sighed.

"Better get them here as quickly as possible, of they'll just dive over the rail and swim for it."

This time, Shamblin did grin. Corporal Rodriguez, in particular, was well known for his rabid readiness to defend their captain.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, gunning the launch's small engine. "Back in a few, with a boatload of God-D*mn Klingons!"

Emma snorted. _(Heh… Klingons!)_ With a straight face, she nodded, saying,

"Carry on, Bosun. Good sailing."

"Thank you, Skipper!"

Shamblin snapped a crisp salute, which Emma returned. By this time, Max had cast off the boat's line, and Shamblin was skillfully backing engine to move away from the reddish-dark, lava-rock pier. He waved, once, then cut her around to speed on back to Union Jack, where the Marines were, indeed, just about ready to swarm overboard and start swimming.

Emma smiled and shook her head. The sun was rising, touching the east with pink and rose gold. Her ship looked like the dark flaw in a fire opal, the launch like a tiny, fast-moving speck.

Kraft watched it go, then turned back to face Virgil, whose hand she'd never released. She gave it a squeeze, and was about to say something, when she felt a small object being pressed into her palm. Virgil's fingers pulled free of hers, and he squeezed her hand shut around his gift, whatever it was.

"Don't say anything," he told her, gazing down at Emma with a peculiar, bright ferocity. "And don't look, yet. I, uh…. I'm not the island's smoothest talker. You want Gordon, for that… But I know when I've found a good thing, and I know when my heart's made up. Hope you feel the same way, Angel. _Now,_ you can look."

His big, warm hand released the outside of hers. He stepped back a pace, looking suddenly vulnerable, and everywhere else but at her. Emma's heart was pounding. There was a roaring sound in her ears; partly the hiss and surge of the ocean, partly her own pounding blood.

Never taking her eyes from his face, she slowly lifted the tightly closed hand up to heart level. Had to step hurriedly forward and put her free arm around him, press her forehead against Virgil's chest, before she quite had the courage to open that hand.

Rising sunlight glinted on bright gold, and a large, heart-shaped diamond. Tears blurred it all, for a long moment, and Kraft couldn't speak. Closing her hand so tightly that the gem bit her palm, Emma swallowed hard, then nodded _yes_ , over and over, as Virgil hugged her back. The sun rose, then, on a very happy pair.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _London, GDF maximum security medical detention center-_

His broken body was healing apace, knitting itself bit by bit as the blind, "merciful" fools pumped him with nutrition and medicines. His mind, however, had been wide awake and free to range, since he'd begun controlling his nurses, causing them to spill their sedatives into his room's toilet.

The family was lost to him? So be it. The Hood had other resources. Other contacts. And, much sooner than the world was ready for, he _would_ be free of this place.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 5, in high orbit around Earth-_

The station felt weird to Scott, without the livening presence of John or Eos. Not that he'd been there very often… he hadn't… but the big, humming and rumbling space station was haunted by their absence. Almost, Scott felt that if he turned around fast enough, he'd see John soaring to meet him, or catch Eos peeking through one of Thunderbird 5's many cameras. Instead, the place was quiet and brooding. Empty.

"Listen, Kayo," he said to his little sister, whose ponytail had expanded behind her like black, shining seaweed. "We need someone up here, full time. It's not safe to leave Thunderbird 5 unattended. There _are_ space pirates, you know, and they _do_ break in and steal. How about you camp out here for awhile, until Brains sobers up and takes over?"

Kayo shot him a sidelong glance. She loved Thunderbird 5, and would gladly spend _any_ amount of time there… especially if it kept her away from Virgil.

"Nothing whatever against it," she said to her smiling big brother; helping him with a push to maneuver across the brightly lit dome. "But first things first, Scott. Let's see to those collectors. I know where John keeps the explosives, if all else fails!"

Scott's crystal blue eyes widened. First, he was about to collide with a bulkhead, and didn't know quite how to stop. Second… _explosives?_ The dome was huge, and mostly empty. What the h*ll did John need with that much space?! And why would he stock up on bomb supplies?! As if reading his mind, Kayo said,

"They're meant to be handy, in case there's an Earth-crossing comet or asteroid in want of destruction… but if there's one thing I've learnt hanging around you lot, it's how to improvise."

She seized Scott by the arm and executed a powerful swinging gesture, do-si-do 'ing them into the exopod launch tunnel. Then, Kayo let go. The exopod mechanism should have picked up on Scott's entrance and begun suiting him up, but it didn't. Just like the launch mechs downstairs, these were easily confused by change, and they didn't recognize Scott Tracy. He wound up colliding with the far hatch, and then bouncing back down the tunnel. Halting himself with a hand to one of the still, silent launch mechs, Scott said,

"Looks like we do this the old-fashioned way. Want to flip for who wears the pod?"

…because he was feeling generous, and not _that_ used to open-space EVA maneuvers. Kayo flashed him a swift, shark-like grin. Before Scott knew what had happened, she'd flipped him butt-first into the padded deck.

"Tails! You lose!" Kayo laughed. "Now, we know who wears the pods, in this family!"

Except, of course, that her flip gave him momentum, and hitting the deck reversed it. Scott bounced, seized Kayo, and launched her upward, hard.

"Heads!" he shouted, getting into the game. "Best two out of three!"

It would be a while before they got out of that tube, which rang with laughter, curses and the thump of bodies colliding… but in the end, Scott won the contest… and a crap-ton of bruises.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Antarctica, Ross Island, the machine room-_

Exploding back into his body, as though riding a badly-stretched rubber band, Nikorr staggered a few steps, then caught his balance. Complete, burning rage caused his heart to pound and his breath to burst forth in harsh, ragged gasps. Kyrano's fists clenched. Had a Tracy… _any_ Tracy… stood before him, just then, he would have reached in and pounded so hard that their liquified brain would have run out their nose.

Control, once lost, was very hard to regain. He had to block everything. Think nothing. Focus on breathing for several long seconds. Only then, having re-started his power-mechs, did Nikorr notice his new second.

The man had been standing, head bowed, at the far end of Sentinel's gantry. Just waiting. Kyrano made a show of moving some tools around, and then shutting the laser's command access panel, before starting back along the high metal walkway. Strode right past his waiting underling, who bowed deeply and then, keeping a respectful few steps behind, followed him.

"Explain your presence," said the tall young man, after they'd left the cavernous, rumbling machine room.

"Kyrano, we have had communication from the Kane. She awaits your response."

Nikorr nodded. He'd learnt nothing at all from the Tracys… except that they thought he was someone quite other; someone that they'd helped to doom. Perhaps Madame Kane would be more forthcoming? Unthinkingly, Nikorr said,

"Thank you," as he turned away into the comm chamber. Then, horrified, he stalked off, thinking: _'What the h*ll, what the h*ll, what the h*ll?!'_ That sewer-mind! It had to have been!

The comm chamber was quite large, and humming-dark. At its center, upon the stone floor, stood a polished metal ring from which issued a blue-green cylindrical holographic field. At the moment, the field was neutral. Empty. But as soon as Nikorr drew close, it began to swirl and adjust. One of its seven inset gems glowed. The amber one, signifying Kane. A woman's image took shape in the field. Armored up and heavily tattooed, she looked like a cyborg Valkyrie.

Nikorr inclined his head briefly, acknowledging her.

"Madame Kane," he said.

"Lord Kyrano," she replied, in a low, silken voice.

"I greet you, and await your pleasure." Mere formality, but altering so much as a word or a pause would have risked ending a very ancient, very fragile understanding.

"Your greeting is returned, and my purpose explained. It has come to my attention that one of our number is behaving… inappropriately."

The Kane was a beautiful woman, although half of her face was smooth, polished chrome, and that eye a flashing red implant. She was dark-honey haired, except on her chromed right side. There, the mane turned fiber-optic crystal, and its colour reflected her mood. At the moment, that side was a thunderous, purple-shot gray.

Nikorr fought the urge to cock an eyebrow and stuff his hands into nonexistent pockets. Worse yet, to say something… suggestive. Managed to control himself, rasping,

"You refer to the "Mechanic", Madame Kane? He who brought us Sentinel?"

She nodded, a brief flicker that might have been annoyance crossing her two-sided face. Had he wished to, Nikorr could have reached out and tapped right into her thoughts, but that would have been a shocking breach of protocol. Instead, he waited for words.

"I do, indeed, Lord Kyrano, and I wish it known that he does _not_ act with our approval or connivance."

On a sudden hunch (a completely new phenomenon, by the way; never before had the young lord experienced intuitive leaps) Nikorr said,

"I believe that he may have been responsible for crippling Sentinel, and for allowing the escape of a sure kill, Thunderbird 2!"

Stated with unnecessary force, perhaps. Madame Kane paused a moment, allowing him time to collect himself.

"Youth is frequently exuberant and unheeding," she remarked, perhaps referring to more than just the Mechanic. "My reply is two-fold, Lord Kyrano. First, open your systems to me, and I shall repair whatever damage was done by the Mechanic. All will be as it was, and I will find and control the perpetrator. Second… drop this vendetta against the Tracys. They are nearly finished, and have done nothing exc…"

At that point, precisely, Nikorr flared up.

"Madame Kane, I respectfully disagree. I demand rite of trial, with representation! My predecessor was deposed… and now must die… because two of those crossbreeds defeated him in a secret, undeclared fight. The Kyranos claim and deserve a response, Lady Kane!"

The Kane's delicate nostrils flared, and her head drew back, that jewel-red eye flashing into target-lock mode. Various parts of her cyborg anatomy changed configuration to battle format.

"Lord Kyrano," she said to him, "your request is noted. I shall allow you the space of a day to consider your words. For the moment… so long as we yet continue allies… you may open your systems, and I shall repair them. That is all, my young Lord."

…Because calling the families together for rite of trial was a very grave matter, indeed.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Titan, in a cramped little escape pod, by the shores of Lake Endurance-_

"It's like this, Luv," Buddy explained, after they'd slowly consumed the day's pitifully small meal. His homely, beloved face was all earnestness, at the moment, and he caressed her hands as he warmed them with his own. "There's a few weeks o' tucker left… twice that, f'r just one woman…"

 _"Or_ man," Ellie corrected fiercely, unwilling that the maths should always turn up with _her_ outliving Buddy. She'd lost a great deal of weight in the past week, and her big blue eyes burnt in her thin face like the jeweled gaze of the elusive crocodile-god. "One _man_ could survive twice as long, too!"

Smiling, Buddy kissed his outraged wife on the forehead.

"O' course, Luv," he assured her. "Natch, I'm considerin' _all_ possibilities. An' here they are, plain an' simple, dinky-di: the plan _don't_ work, an' we're no worse off than we was. The plan works 'alf way, an' our stash is twice as big as it were, 'cause only one's eatin' it. The plan works full-on, an' we've no worries at all, Bob's y'r uncle. Sit tight till 'elp arrives, in a few more ticks o' the clock. Good 'un, eh?"

Ellie sighed, closed her eyes, and rested her head against Buddy's chest. Despite the fact that he'd been sneaking little bits of his own food onto her plate, making up stupid reasons for her to look away over _there_ , or fetch him the water tube _here_ , Ellie was growing too weak to think clearly. Mostly, she just wanted to sleep. Rubbing her head against his chest, she whispered,

"Together, Mate, or not at all. If y'r not plannin' t' sacrifice y'rself, and y'r playin' straight with me, then we'll try it your way. Otherwise… well, it's been a bonzer run, Buddy… An' I couldn't think o' anyone else I'd rather be with, no matter what 'appens next."

She was shivering, unable to feel warm, even pressed up against him. Buddy took off his lucky red beanie, and placed it carefully on Ellie's blonde head.

"That's it, Love of me life," he said. "You catch a few winks, Lass, and I'll set things up. You rest now. Got it all in 'and. I promise you, El."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, at the local GDF field office-_

Lieutenant Lasangah sat back from her comm readout, frowning slightly. The office was cluttered and untidy, except in her area, which was an oasis of order and calm. But then, she _was_ awfully new.

"French," she called out, half turning her head, "come have a look at this, would you?"

Her precinct captain mumbled crossly before scooting his wheeled chair in squeaky bursts across the floor to her side. Blake French _never_ got up, unless he had to.

"What is it, this time," he demanded tiredly. "Food riots in Low Town? Coastal flooding? Pirate raids?"

Sherna Lasangah shook her head, almost dislodging the pins holding up her mass of black hair.

"None of the above, Sir," she told him. "There's a weirdly _huge_ power drain coming from Low Town, at the old Grand Central Mall."

French shrugged his thin, sloping shoulders, further rumpling a sweat-stained green tunic. His pale eyes were distant and bored, barely glancing at her data.

"Bunch of squatters tapping into the grid, again. No big deal. We'll send in the local cops and clean 'em all out of there."

But Sherna frowned; uneasy, though she couldn't exactly say _why._

"I don't know, French… something just _feels_ wrong. The power drain is really humungous. Like… like somebody's secretly running a city and municipal airport, over there. How could squatters use so much power to cook a few meals and light their shanties? It just doesn't make any sense."

The captain wasn't impressed, already scooting back to his own desk, and the daily GDF status report.

"You worry too much, Shern," he scoffed. "Tell you what… right after shift change, we'll get in the aircar and head down there. Give you a chance to check things out for yourself. Don't get too excited though, Rookie. Count on it; nothing down there but beggars and bugs. Probably some joker running an illegal fight club, or something. Whack him with a zap-stick, cuff him and drag him in for questioning. Piece of cake, Sherna, trust me."

Sherna Lasangah gave the captain a tight, worried smile, but in the back of her mind, she couldn't help wondering if, after all, the job would be quite so easy. Maybe… she ought to call for backup? Just in case? Not in front of Captain French, though. She didn't want to look nervous, as well as brand-new.

So, the clock ticked, Sherna fretted, and geckoes ran past on the ceiling till at last it was shift change, and still, she'd not made that call. But, hey… nothing to worry over, right? Just a power-thief joker and lots of bugs.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Elsewhere-_

The mechanic reached into the 3D printer for the new cyber-goggles and mask. He held them for a moment in both hands, watching the play of light on gleaming chrome, and feeling their weight.

With that d*mn persistent kid looking on, Kane lifted the gear to his scarred, tattooed face, and pressed them into position. His flesh moved and then tore, as the circuitry beneath burrowed upward to meet contact points on the goggles, and connect his retinas. Mask locked on the same way, becoming a part of him; sending long tendrils deep down into his massive lungs.

For a few minutes, he was blind and vertiginous, and d*mned if that kid didn't come forward and take his hand. Should have backhanded the little pest into the next life… but didn't. Not until his brain adjusted to the new gear, and he could see again. Maybe not even then. He'd been halfway expecting a double-cross, but the goggles soon finished negotiating with his brain, and then he could see; across the spectrum and in every magnification from electron microscope to wide-array space lens. Could see data and telecom packets, too. Back to normal, at last.

Shaking the d*mn kid off with much less than usual force, Kane turned and strode from the mall's former courtyard. Brains had come through, he mused. The little b*stard had actually come through.


	21. Chapter 21

One last chapter, then vacation's over. Had a blast, thank you. Hugs to Bow Echo, Guest and Helensg (which my SLD mind always translates as "Van Helsing") for reading and reviewing.

 **21**

 _Jakarta, in the former Grand Central Mall-_

Ilya waited to be certain that the hostages (he no longer considered himself one of those) were securely bedded down. Then, once their sniveling and hiccups had faded to steady, deep breaths, the boy slipped away. In his ragged, red nylon backpack, he had food and a single canned soda to share. Where the mechs had found that, he didn't know, and he didn't care. All his life, he'd only tasted one, split with Mom and with Sissy, who'd made a face at the bubbles. This one was grape, though. Maybe she'd like it better.

He wove his way through the hustling, streaming mechas, occasionally patting a familiar dented carapace, or accepting a bit of stale food. They, in turn, climbed him, just like they did the Mechanic, taking frequent nips from his backpack's aluminum buckles. There was confidence in Ilya's posture, now. He no longer scurried or crouched, but did his best to copy his hero's long stride.

He'd gained weight, too. His ribs hardly showed anymore, and Sissy was getting too big for her safe place. He'd have to move her soon… but where to? And _how_ , without risking her life? Fretting, Ilya stopped paying attention to his surroundings and just followed the flow of streaming scorpion mechs. At a certain point, though, he looked around, then slipped away from the main nest, with its frantic, droning activity. Took a short corridor eastward, then went out through a green door marked:

 **AUTH Z D PERSON LL O Y**

Mom had taught him to read, a little, but the words made no sense to Ilya. Only, they meant his stairwell, and home. Got the door open using his special combination on the keypad, and then slipped on inside. Most of the stairs had collapsed up above, and were choked with rubble, below. That's what made it a good place to live, because there was only one way to come in, and that could be booby-trapped.

Ilya knew what not to touch, though, and where not to step. He was safe from all the "surprises" Mom had rigged up. For him, it was just a warm, dusty, blanket-lined refuge, and it still smelt like home.

He was just reaching down to pull up the plywood false floor, when the door was torn off its hinges behind him with a harsh, shrieking squeal. A heave and a grunt sent it flying away, letting in light, and the noise of the swarm. The Mechanic stood there, taking up the whole portal. Behind him, the crumpled metal door struck the nest floor, spinning and bouncing, scattering mechs in every direction. Ilya jumped, gasping in shock and sudden, wild fear.

"What are you hiding?!" the Mechanic growled, pacing forward a step to crush the door's shock device. It sparked, crunched and died under his booted foot, as he batted away a chain-swinging deadfall; no more to Kane than a long paper streamer would have been. "A shielded transmitter, isn't it! Going to sell me out!"

Ilya's breath caught. He stumbled backward as the Mechanic scanned the false floor, and then made ready to blast it apart.

"Please, Sir… Wait!" he cried out, lunging for Kane's heavily muscled gun arm. "I'll show you! Please! Only, let me do it! She don't know any better! She'll cry!"

The Mechanic's target-lock was live, pointed directly at Sissy's safe place… but he didn't fire. Not yet. Ilya let go of the cyborg's arm, dropping to the ground and backing toward his sister's hiding place as though somehow his small, skinny body could shield her. Footsteps dull on the solid part, then hollow-sounding. Casting a last, pleading look at Kane, Ilya crouched down, moved a blanket aside, and then got his fingers beneath the jointed wood panel, lifting it up on well-oiled hinges.

"Shhh…!" he said, "Shhh, Sissy! It's me, it's just me!"

She looked up at him, blinking in the sudden light, and happily draped in scuttling, translucent mechas. Held up both thin little arms and smiled. The whole universe contracted to this one, awful moment, because she was all he had left. All that still mattered, from before.

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to cry. He reached down, took hold of his sister, and lifted her up out of the blanket nest. She wrapped her arms around his neck for a ride, and snuggled up, just like always; that one, twisted leg flapping loosely against him.

"Hey, Sissy," he whispered. "Be good, okay? Be real good, now."

She chuckled and said,

"Bubby!" giving him a friendly head-bash with all of her three-year-old force. Some of the mechs in her hair fell off when she did that, but they zipped right back up through the air. Ilya took a deep breath, thinking, _'please, please, please…'_ Then he turned around, looking up with very wide, honey-brown eyes.

"It's Sissy," he whispered. "I ain't stole nuthin' to feed her, Mister. Just gave her half of mine. She don't eat much, and she's real quiet, and so good… nobody don't even know she's here!"

Kane stared. He had no siblings, because his mother had destroyed the weakest, and none of the others had survived implantation. This creature, with her deformed bottom half, would have been smashed against a wall and fed back into the cloning machine. Yet… she was alive with mecha; the sort drawn to psionic energy. Fifteen of the things. Even so, he felt something tap at his mind, like a kitten batting at string. The other kid, the boy, was shaking. Terrified, but trying hard not to show it. Grudgingly, Kane respected that. Some potential there, maybe. Anyway, not a transmitter. Not a betrayal.

Behind the goggles, his amber eyes narrowed. Growing bored and impatient, the Mechanic made one of his typical snap decisions. He extended a finger; its tip beginning to sparkle with extruded circuitry. Touched the girl's dirty shoulder. She twitched and hiccupped. Didn't cry, though, as circuits bit deep and sank in. Beneath her pink, flowered tank top and over-full diapers, bright streaks of silver began to appear. After a few moments, she giggled and started chasing the zig-zagging streaks with her hands.

Kane shrugged and turned away. She'd survive, or she wouldn't. No sense getting attached, or worked up about it. That, among his folk, was just life. Already halfway out the door, he paused. Then he said to the kid, over one tattooed shoulder.

"Don't like pets. It craps on my floor, I kill it."

Ilya nodded, still holding his twisting, chortling sister.

"Yes, Sir," he replied, in a fiercely adoring whisper. "She won't be any trouble."

But the cyborg, his hero, was already gone. The swarm-ship was nearly completed, his army at close to full strength. He had a great deal of planning to do before launch, and two little brats hardly counted, at all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, between Mars and Jupiter-_

John was in the pilot's seat, doing three things at once. First, keeping an eye on their course and surroundings. Second, writing new quantum game code; the kind that would add compassionate judgement to an AI's decision-making algorithm. Third, because it helped shut things out, he was playing with a projected, 4D hypercube puzzle. Eos scrambled the glowing figure, he solved it; over and over. Thinking in that many dimensions was soothing and fun, though Eos pronounced him hopelessly slow.

Then Captain Taylor glided into the cockpit, carrying a rehydrated breakfast pouch.

"Mornin', Jase. How ya doin'?"

John minimized the puzzle cube, sliding it down and away to one side. Eos would keep the timer running, no doubt. Four years, and he still couldn't stop her from cheating.

"Fine, Sir. You?"

The older astronaut puffed a long, weary sigh.

"Gotta admit, I've had better nights. Like a relay race in hell, ain't it? Just one d*mned thing after another."

John smiled, briefly; accepting the food pouch with a murmured, 'thanks'. Then, as he squeezed the pouch's egg and ham mixture into a force-shielded dining tray, John said,

"I've been thinking about the Hood, Uncle Lee… About whether we should check with the detention center, to see if he's still…"

"Tucked up nappin', like a good little psycho?" Taylor finished for him, while flipping down into the copilot's seat. "Yup. I'd say that's pretty important, Son."

But John, between careful bites of soggy, tasteless breakfast, didn't immediately call. Instead, he said,

"What I can't figure out, is… why does he hate us, so much? I mean… okay, I worked him over, some…"

Taylor made a 'little bit' sign with his pinched thumb and forefinger, which he then widened _way_ out, using both hands. John shrugged.

"Okay, a lot. But we didn't start it! He threatened Dad, O'Bannon, and all of Global-1's crew, got us to come to him, and then gets mad, _because we fought back?_ And calls us 'mongrels'? Seriously, what the h*ll?"

"Keep eatin' Jason," Lee ordered. "You ain't touched above half o' that. I know it ain't y'r auntie's fine cookin', but it's what we got, so get ta shovelin'!" Then, once John had reluctantly resumed eating, "You n' Spencer handed 'im his ass at the end of a pike, Jase… What'd ya expect? A thank you card?"

John almost snorted up eggs, which would have been a real mess in zero-G.

"I expect him to go piss in someone _else's_ backyard… and to find us there waiting, when he does. You think he'd learn a lesson, from all this."

Taylor grimaced.

"That's just it, Jase. You boys gotta be what you are, and so does _that_ sorry sonuvabitch. Long as he's breathin', guarantee you, he's schemin'. If he don't attack you directly, you'll _still_ go after 'im, 'cause he just can't help doin' wrong. Some folks is just wired that way."

John shook his head, wishing that there was a dog around, he could feed the rest of his breakfast to. Times like this, he really, _really_ missed Rusty.

"I get what you're saying, Sir. I just don't get _him."_

Taylor smiled and cuffed the back of John's head, mussing his red-golden hair.

"Be real worried if that bastitch made sense ta you, Jason. But the short answer is, we got limits an' rules. He don't. An' that means we're all the time gonna be buttin' heads. Savy?"

John sighed, looking through the viewports at golden Jupiter; still just the size of his thumbnail at full arm-stretch.

"Everything's better at a distance," he remarked. "If I could rescue without seeing faces or hearing screams… if my family was just a kiss and a present at Christmas, I'd be fine." He'd survived breakfast, anyhow. That was something.

Lee considered a moment, coming back at last with a gentle,

"Maybe you don't need _them_ , Son, but they sure need you. Families stick together. It's all we got, Jase. Each other. Unless y'r auntie's right, an' there's somebody up there runnin' all this… In which case, I got a few requests ta make."

John smiled broadly enough to dimple, which was quite rare. Then, he said,

"Tell you what I'll never ask, again: 'What the h*ll else could go wrong?' But, request number one: The Hood's ass is right where we left it, in a d*mn hospital bed. So… _you_ want to call, or should I?"

Taylor grinned.

"Rock, paper, scissors. Best two outta three. _Go!"_

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Ross Island, in the command center-_

Nikorr stood watching as his people went about their assigned tasks. The Kane had been as good as her word. Sentinel was on line, once more, and three-quarters charged. With tremendous power soon on its way, Kyrano decided that a small test was in order. You know… just to be certain the laser _worked_ … and to hurry matters along. No one could blame him for giving the rescue party a boost, after all. And if something went wrong… If his laser slipped a bit too close to the hull, or if their calculations were now wildly off, owing to sudden acceleration… well, he'd only been trying to help.

To his second, who was watching the young man through narrowed green eyes, Nikorr said,

"We will test the laser. Locate Thunderbird 3, and aim for her sail, at full blast. Let us discover the worth of their technology, and ours."

"Yes, Kyrano," his underling replied, bowing not quite so low as before. Had Nikorr not been so vengeful, so distracted, he might have noticed the change. Instead, he looked on as a series of snapped commands brought Sentinel up and out of her cavern housing, then swung her about.

"Target acquired," called the chief gunner. The Tracys weren't even trying to hide. "At your word, My Lord."

Kyrano leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back.

 _"_ Fire!"

Once again, the entire mountain shook. A broad beam of violet light shot from the gun-port. Like a lightning strike, they heard the droning hum and _CRACK_ of ionized air, smelt the sharp tang of ozone. Maintained fire long enough to cover three and a half AUs of space. Then, nearly ten minutes later, the gunner's mate turned from her targeting scope and whirled to face Nikorr.

"A hit, Kyrano! Direct hit, my Lord!"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _In the air above Jakarta, approaching the crumbling Grand Central Mall-_

Lieutenant Lasangah was flying, because her captain's indolence meant that he couldn't be bothered. Instead, he was drinking a doctored coffee and humming to himself, drooping eyes fixed on a brain-chipped music video.

There were weapons in the rickety aircar's supply locker, and earlier, Sherna had taken one out; strapped it on. As she banked over the old mall, Lasangah noticed something strange about its roof, which was oddly metallic, and moving, or… buzzing?

"French," she called, over wind noise, and the sound of his badly hummed pop song, "Captain, sir… we're almost there. It looks… I think you want to see this, French! _French!"_

That's when thousands of mechas rose from the roof and attacked, in a vast, droning horde.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, the infirmary-_

She had, indeed, brought a doctor, and plenty of healing equipment. With the ring on her finger, Kraft hung on to Virgil's hand; squeezing tight, as the injured pilot first sat upon the examination table, and then (wincing a little) lay down.

Dr. Alonso unfastened the young man's sling, got the shirt off, and very gently manipulated his arm, looking up at the scanner while doing so. Muttered quietly to himself, using medical arcana and strange terminology. Words, yes. Recognizable, no.

At length, Alonso stopped his examination and turned to face Kraft. Translating his earlier comments to Basic, the stocky, pale-haired doctor said,

"It's a clean fracture of the right clavicle, _erm_ … collarbone, plus concussion, Ma'am. Typical treatment would be keeping the arm in a sling and allowing plenty of analgesics and rest."

Virgil was clammy and pale, but he'd got his breathing under control, again. Could see straight, even.

"What's the faster way?" he asked hoarsely, ignoring waves of hot, pulsing pain from his right shoulder. "Door number two; what is it?"

Alonso glanced at his captain, who nodded approval. Only then, did he answer the dark-haired young pilot.

"Well, Mr. Tracy… if you're willing to run the risk of minor surgery…"

"Whatever it takes," said Virgil, as Emma took his hand, again.

"Understood, Sir… Ma'am. The quicker, alternate treatment would involve incision, and bone-welding. Takes about thirty minutes, and _should_ be followed by immobilization for at least twenty-four hours. Otherwise, new bone cell growth won't propagate across the weld; meaning it's sure to break again, later."

"Risks?" demanded Emma. _She_ had to, because Virgil didn't care. Would have signed in blood on the dotted line, right then and there. Anything, to be back in action. _Men._

"The usual, following surgery, Skipper: infection, inflammation, adverse reaction to anesthesia… but your… the… this, um…"

"Virgil," he supplied, with a ghost of his usual mischief. "Unless you're Uncle Lee. Then, it's "Vic". I answer to both."

Alonso nodded.

"Virgil seems to be in excellent general condition, apart from his injuries. I anticipate no major surgical complications. Your decision, Skipper."

"Yeah. What the h*ll do I know," Virgil growled, only just not pushing himself off of the table, thanks to a sharp, needle-hot twinge from his shoulder. "I'm only the guy with the busted-ass arm."

"That would be your collarbone… Sir."

Alonso looked like the sort of doctor who wished that his patients were all unconscious. Grandma had come in by that point, looking harried and concerned. Before she could say anything to countermand him, Virgil caught the doctor's eye and said,

"Do it. I need to be back at a hundred-and-twenty percent, _yesterday."_

Dr. Alonso glanced over at Emma, who nodded agreement. Then, he set right to work, ordering extraneous family members the h*ll out of his operating theatre. As he was beginning to set up equipment and prep his patient, Kraft said,

"You want me to leave too, don't you?"

The doctor paused, looking up from his instrument tray.

"Unless you're a qualified nurse, by any chance…?"

Emma shook her head, still holding Virgil's hand, which had begun to slacken grip as the anesthetic took effect.

"I've held some men together on the deck, Doctor, when a cable snapped and cut them almost in half. I can help, if you tell me what to do… or I can get the h*ll out of your way, if that's better."

Alonso reached over and tossed her a green paper surgical mask, saying,

"Go scrub up, Skipper. I start cutting in five minutes, welding in seven."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Space, leaving Thunderbird 5-_

Their playful mood held for a while. With Kayo riding on his shoulders as though they were playing chicken with Gordon and Alan in the pool, how could Scott resist a few swoops and barrel rolls? The ionosphere lay a few hundred miles below them, but that was no distance at all, in an exopod. His helmet's heads-up display provided directions and distance to contact. All Scott had to do was fly through starlit space, with his sister riding piggy-back. Got a sunrise, even; a sight he'd never forget. First the brilliant, yellow-white sun breaking above the Earth's limb like a diamond, then light spreading across ocean and clouds, below. Saw the sparkling outline of cities fading, as daylight overtook them. Said Kayo, close by his ear over the helmet comm,

"That's… wow."

And all that Scott could think of to say in response was, with feeling,

"Yeah."

…then, the trouble started.


	22. Chapter 22

Late again, sorry. Lots of life happening in a very short time. Many thanks to Bow Echo, Guest and to Whirl Girl for their very kind reviews.

 **22**

 _Titan, by the dark shores of Lake Endurance-_

Saturn, aloof and majestic, shone through thinning, yellow-brown clouds, taking up fully a quarter of the sky. Its wide, pale rings were tilted at quite a steep angle to the ground. Looked like a shimmering escalator, almost. Meanwhile, several new dunes had developed on the lake shore as the thick, heavy wind pushed pebbles of rock-ice and heaped them in piles. The rain had stopped, sending those elusive Titanean mud worms back to their burrows. No one was present to comment, though, or to record their hissing retreat.

The neighboring cataract had dried up, leaving the lake's oily surface placid and smooth once more, with only occasional ripples washing ashore. Nearby, a silent, battered escape pod lay tilted and half-buried in wind-driven sand. The once carefully piled supplies had toppled over, and a dance of chaotic foot prints were all but gone; erased by wind, by rain, and by too much time. Nothing moved but drifting cloud. Nothing made noise but the wind. Almost, it looked like a gravesite. Like yet one more forgotten, lost colony.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, over the former Grand Central Mall-_

Wave after wave of droning, sawing mechas struck the GDF aircar; latching hold and piling on, three and four deep. Within seconds, the aircar had disappeared in a ball of mechanical hornets. Aerodynamics gone, power shorted out by repeated electrical discharges, the vehicle dropped from the sky like a meteor.

The temperature inside spiked past 120 degrees as the drones clung tight and buzzed their wings to generate heat. Sherna could see nothing through the car's windows but a press of scrabbling metallic bodies. Didn't need to _see_ , to tell that they were plunging out of the sky, though. Her stomach managed that, by threatening to fly up out of her mouth.

Alarms and comm had gone dark; even Captain French's brain chip stopped projecting. For once, he was wide-awake, and one-hundred percent in the moment.

"Counter measures?!" he yelped, leaning forward to peer past Sherna Lasangah's right shoulder. The noise of clicking limbs and thundering wings was indescribable; made it very difficult to hear. Lasangah shouted,

"Tried them all, Sir! Everything's been disconnected, or shorted out. We're going to…"

That's when a horrendously loud, jarring, splintering crash cut her off. Sherna lost consciousness for maybe a minute. Woke up again hurting all over, hanging sideways in her seat straps as thousands of razor-sharp jaws began tearing apart the aircar. She unstrapped with one hand, and brought her low-powered peace officer weapon up, with the other. Brief flashes of sunlight shone in through the gaps between moving insect bodies and holes in the chassis.

Freed of her seatbelt, Lieutenant Lasangah slid across and down the front seat. Her heart was pounding, and her throat was scratchy-dry from harsh, panting gasps.

"French!" she whispered urgently, dark eyes very wide. "Come on, Sir! I'll blast a hole, and we'll kick a way through, then run for it. Our comms should work to call for help, if we can… French? Captain?"

There was something odd about the way he dangled in his twisted straps and buckled chair. He was very pale, but calm, as he looked at Sherna and said,

"I'm not going anywhere, Rookie. Back's broken, I think. Get out of here. Go on… should've listened. My own fault. _Hurry."_

Lasangah shook her head. Captain French wasn't a tall or a heavy man. Surely, she could…

 _"Now,_ Lieutenant, before we're both bug-food!"

More and more holes were appearing in the aircar's chassis as thousands of piercing, can-opener jaws tore it apart. Despite the captain's orders, she tried to get his seatbelt unfastened, but the catch was stuck.

Twisting around, half-blinded by tears of pain and frustration, Sherna fired her weapon at the cracked and vibrating windshield, dark with writhing metallic bodies. Discharge wasn't very powerful, but her target was only two feet away. Perma-glass shattered. Bugs exploded inward, while Sherna Lasangah lunged up and out, screaming at the top of her voice. Behind her, more screams, suddenly choked off in a wet, awful gurgle.

Out of the aircar, she tripped, struck a hard surface, then rolled. Surged to her booted feet again, beating off clouds of flying drones with both flailing arms. Only thing she had going for her was that the mechs didn't shift gears very well. They had been ordered to bring down an intruding aircar. That's what they focused on. Not a lone, fleeing human, on foot.

Sherna kept low and dashed forward, holding in mind her glimpse of the roof, and the specs she'd studied, earlier. There was an access door, she knew, leading to the top floor of the four-story structure. Just a few hundred feet away. If she could reach it, kick it open, get out of the bug-cloud, then, maybe…

Something was wrong with her left ankle, but she kept running. The sky was black with swarms of mechanical hornets; clicking, buzzing, zapping. Sherna didn't stop. Actually collided with the access door, before she saw it. Rusted and loose on one hinge, it went down with a kick of pure, adrenaline-fueled rage. Then, she was inside; safe… ish.

The metal stairs were as badly corroded as the door had been. They collapsed like a card-house beneath her, folding level by level with the long, tired groan of a felled tree, exhaling clouds of rust and plaster; firing shorn bolts like bullets. Didn't do a thing for her sprained ankle, but took her further away from those mechs, at least. Somehow, she did not lose her gun.

As the stairs collapsed, she saw an open doorway in the opposite wall, rising to meet her in creaking slow motion. Took the chance and jumped, rather than wind up at the base of the stairwell, crushed by tons of rusted steel. Didn't quite make it, striking the doorway's projecting lip with her stomach. Breath huffed out, but she didn't fall. Had to kick and scuff with both feet, haul with one arm, to pull herself a little further from danger. Managed to squirm onto the floor as the ringing, crashing collapse went on, below. She lay there a moment, fighting to control a rising shriek. Needed help. Didn't dare try her phone or GDF comm, yet; not out in the open. Had to have shelter, a hiding place, first. Turned them both off, in fact, because maybe the drones could sense EM radiation and track her down with it.

A swift look around showed her to be on the derelict mall's trash-littered second story, or… what remained of it. Most of the huge shopping plaza had been gutted, forming a giant hangar for something large, sleek and ugly. An airship of some sort. Two-hundred-fifty… maybe three-hundred feet long. Organic looking, and vaguely insectoid. Covered with skittering, buzzing mechs, it resembled a massive termite queen, surrounded by scurrying soldiers. French had been right about the bugs, anyhow… Raking her lower lip with her teeth, Sherna blinked away tears and glanced upward.

The roof's skylight was festooned with green algae and greyish-white bird droppings. Didn't let in much light, but enough to see that the mechs were streaming aboard their "queen", carrying bits and pieces of heavy equipment.

The young peace officer took a deep breath and got herself together. Then, she began creeping over the glass- and trash-crunchy floor toward the nearest shelter, an old mall security kiosk. She could hide within, take a few pictures with her phone, then pray toward the City, and call for back up.

Was almost there, when she sensed a presence. Looked around, and saw a young boy staring at her. Blond hair, brown eyes. Not as thin or as dirty as most abandoned kids that she'd seen. He wore mismatched clothes, and an old red backpack, altered to carry a smaller child, who peered over his shoulder at Lieutenant Lasangah, and waved.

The officer crouched lower. Jerking her head at the security kiosk and reaching a hand forth, she whispered,

"Come with me, little ones. I'll summon help, and we'll get you to safety."

Only, the boy stepped backward, rather than taking Sherna's proffered hand. Face hard, he shouted,

 _"Here, Sir!_ The other one's right here, tryna hide!"

Sheer surprise caused Lieutenant Lasangah to rock back into a sitting position on that filthy concrete floor. That, and the sudden appearance of a large, scarily familiar man jet-packing onto the concrete deck, from below. He landed with a muted thud. Rose from his crouch with lion's grace.

"Sir, I found her," cried the boy, rushing to meet the Mechanic. "She's…"

"Shut up." His voice was a deep, rumbled growl. Not angry, not raised, but the boy obeyed without question, stepping aside.

Sherna scooted backward, pushing with both legs, keeping her gun cocked and trained on the Mechanic's broad, armoured chest. In real life, he was even bigger and more terrifying than he'd seemed in the GDF security files. One hand was now fully robotic, the goggles and breath mask slightly altered, his amber eyes as intent as a cat's. He stalked her scrabbling retreat, taking his time; exuding sheer, predatory menace.

"You can't hurt me with that toy," he told her, pacing slowly forward. "I could break you in half or," indicating the thousands of drones which were buzzing up to land on the second floor's dirty, cracked surface, "I could let _them_ have you. They didn't leave much of your partner."

He flipped something… French's gold badge… at her. It spun through the air, catching glints of weak sunlight as it tumbled. Sherna snatched it with her free hand, not willing that this last sign of her captain should hit the ground. Tears began sliding down her cheeks, but still she kept that weak little peace-keeper aimed at the advancing Mechanic.

"He was a good man," she whispered.

The killer snorted.

"Died squealing. Same as all the other vermin. Same as you would… except I want you to carry a message, 'Officer'." The last word was spoken with unmistakable contempt. Still, she'd been trained to keep the criminals talking, until backup arrived. So,

"I'm listening," she said, getting very slowly back to her feet. By this time, there were mechs everywhere; covering floor, ceiling and walls, climbing onto the mechanic, and even that stone-faced small boy.

"Tell your 'superiors' that I'm leaving this place before dawn. I have hostages, and I expect to be left unmolested before, during and after launch. If not, I'll toss my insurance, piece by piece, at your pursuit craft… then bring it down."

At his signal, four larger bug-drones flew up, each holding a weeping child in its spindly metal legs. Sherna's breath caught. The four hostages were as young as the boy who'd betrayed her, and clearly terrified, hanging there in the grip of those awful machines. Thinking quickly, she said,

"Release the hostages to me, let us go, and I promise you'll be allowed to leave here in peace."

The big, armored man laughed at her, bitter and short.

"You don't have the authority to back that up, mouse-girl."

Sherna shook her head, sending a few strands of long black hair tumbling loose of her modest bun.

"No, I don't… but my Aunt is a local magistrate. She _can_ clear the skies for you. Just, give me the hostages, first, all of them. I _promise,_ no one will follow you."

The Mechanic regarded her like a lion with a squeaking rodent pinned beneath its huge paw. Sherna had no doubt whatsoever that he could kill her in an instant, and not even remember, the next day. Her life hung, twisting, on less than a hair… but those kids _mattered_. She couldn't just leave them.

Then, the boy said,

"We're staying. Whatever you decide about _them,_ Mister, Sissy an' me are staying right here." _With you,_ he did not say aloud. "We could be hostages, even if _they_ go."

The Mechanic spared half a glance backward. Seemed to find the offer amusing. Made up his mind, and gestured as though conducting an unseen orchestra. The big fliers drew near and dropped their squirming burdens on the floor before Sherna; three little boys and a thin, wide-eyed girl.

"Take them, then. Less to feed." One pace further forward he came, as the four children ran up to cluster for safety around the trembling lieutenant, clinging tight to her legs and free hand. "But there's no place you can hide from me, and no one who can stop me, if I decide you're worth killing… 'Officer'. Keep the law off my back, or we finish this."

Sherna nodded. Then he gestured again, already bored with their conversation. The bug mechs parted, forming an aisle leading toward an old, rust-pocked doorway marked:

 **E RGE Y E T**

The freed kids were almost too frightened to move. She said to them,

"Come, Little Ones. It's okay. It's okay, now. You're safe."

And then, she began backing slowly away, dark eyes never leaving the Mechanic. What she'd neglected to mention, was that she wasn't on speaking terms with most of her family. Not since she'd chosen to parade herself before all, at a male-dominated post, in a tight uniform, without even covering her head. Only her mother would sneak out to see Sherna, anymore. But maybe Aunt Menna would listen? Otherwise, Officer Lasangah had just bought four kids with her life.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, in space, between the asteroid belt, and Jupiter-_

Alan finished his breakfast of Oaties and rehydrated milk, then put his utensils away in the proper bin to be cleansed and sterilized. He was due to take over for John in the cockpit, soon, and looked forward to flying his Bird. Or, more correctly, to sitting there watching her course. At this point, they were locked on target, and there really _wasn't_ all that much to do… provided nothing _else_ went wrong on the road trip from hell. Always a big, glaring "if", especially lately.

The boy cast a sidelong glance at Gordon, who was with him in the big, noisy hold, actually _putting stuff away._ As in, y'know… cleaning up. It was _eerie._ Alan was dying to ask, but he was sort of afraid to. Like, what if Gordon busted out with another creepy voice, or his head spun all the way around, or something? Zombies, Alan could handle; even up here, man, he was _prepared._ But, weird space-ghost possessions? How the heck did you keep out evil ju-ju star spirits?

Alan pushed off of the bulkhead, angling himself to approach Gordon, who had at last run out of crap to tidy and re-pack. Now, he was shaving. Well, at least it was an _orderly_ ju-ju spirit.

"Hey, Bro!" he called, brightly. They were separated by half the length of the hold, and the ion engines were humming. He had to raise his voice, a bit. "How's…"

That's when… **BANG!** Thunderbird 3 leapt suddenly forward, sending everything not securely tied down flying straight to the back of the hold. Alarms went off, which were beginning to sound like background music to Alan, they'd gone off so freakin' _much._

He collided with the padded bulkhead, and Gordon. Was pressed there, too, because whatever had hit and pushed them, was still picking up speed. His brother had a long, shallow cut across one cheek, from which blood was bubbling freely, drifting away through the air in red little globs. Shaving accident, in space.

"What the heck…?!" Alan yelped. Then, managing to get his comm arm around and then press the right button, "John! What're you doing up there, Bro? Get off the dang gas!"

"Not me," his red-haired older brother replied, holo image looking _really_ distracted. In the background, Alan could hear Uncle Lee cussing a blue streak. "Laser. Really powerful. We've accelerated."

"Yeah," Gordon grunted, pushing away from the bulkhead with near-Virgil strength. "We noticed. On our way up, John. C'mon, Sprout. Let's go see what we can do."

"Not a d*mn thing, 'less I c'n change these figures!" Taylor bellowed, audible even without the comm. "Otherwise, it's straight through Jupiter, an' you two c'n bend over, grab y'r ankles, an' kiss y'r ass goodbye!"

"That's what I like about him," said Gordon, bouncing from one side of the hold to the other with Alan in tow, angling at the forward hatch. "Always ( _dammit, missed!)_ so positive. And… _urf_ … John? What a kidder. Life of the… _(crap!)_ God-d*mn party."

Alan couldn't help laughing; firing off that dumb, rapid giggle he hated so much. At least the ju-ju spirits had a sense of humor. Tidy _and_ funny…? Alan hated to say that Gordon had improved, but the facts spoke for themselves, people.

His brother manhandled them into the cockpit at last, Gordon still trailing thin streamers of blood like the steam from an old locomotive. Some of it clung to his face, though, which made both John and Uncle Lee do a double-take.

"First aid kit's on the port bulkhead," John reminded them. "Hang on to something, first. I'm going to try pulling away from the beam, without cutting across it."

"H*ll, no!" Taylor snapped. "Y'll rip our d*mn sail in half, or ventilate th' hull, which is right serious, in space."

"Open to suggestions," said John, a bit tensely. That broad purple laser lanced up at an angle to hammer their sail, skimming the hull and filling the cockpit with a weird violet glow. Meanwhile, they were accelerating so fast that the scale on the instrument panel gave up and blinked: _error._

Alan thrust a hand past John's shoulder, palm outward. John slapped it with his own, saying,

"Tag. You're in." Then, he unstrapped and flipped himself out of the pilot's seat, just as Alan battled their thrust to slide in. Two seconds, tops.

John didn't mind relinquishing control of Thunderbird 3. Not if someone else could do it better. He _did_ mind all the weird things Alan had done with his eyebrows and winks, jerking his bright blond head in Gordon's direction, as they changed places. Body language. John _hated_ body language. Better Swahili, Linear-A, or effing Proto-Indo-European, than _that._

"Something- something- _something,_ Gordon," he guessed. Which made no sense at all. Zero. Oh, well… there was always the first aid kit. Nothing opaque about slapping a bandage on somebody's cut. He could do that, all day.

"C'mere," he ordered, reaching for the kit and for Gordon, at once.

Meanwhile, Alan's expression had hardened, and his blue eyes narrowed. Someone had shot at his Bird. Very slowly, but building in force, anger began piling up in him. _Nobody_ threatened Thunderbird 3, and got away with it.

"Options, Captain Taylor?" he growled, taking hold of the rocket controls.

"Well, Alvin… sorta depends on y'r tolerance f'r risk n' gruesome destruction," drawled Lee, whilst still muttering curses and pounding away at his virtual keyboard. "Right now, we're on a course that _woulda_ skimmed us past Jupiter, pickin' up some slingshot speed, in th' process. Only, we're gonna get there a whole lot faster'n planned, so instead o' skimmin'…"

"We'll plunge right in," Alan finished, beginning to sweat a bit. "How fast can you plot a new course, Sir?"

"Be a d*mn sight quicker, if I warn't talkin' at th' same time."

Alan nodded.

"Shutting up, Sir. Gonna cut that sail loose, though. Make it simpler for you to plan, if we aren't speeding up, the whole time."

Uncle Lee just grunted. Over to one side, John had concluded patching up Gordon, who'd stood remarkably still for it. Didn't pull away, or curse him much, at all. Weird. Then, Eos began blinking and flashing at him through one of the bulkhead cams. Odds, again, which was worse than body language, on the John Scale of Really Crap Things. He looked away, just as Alan said,

"Okay, hang on, you guys! Cutting her loose… _now!"_

Bit over-dramatic, actually, since what he did was to press a key that caused the sail's nanostructures to pop themselves out of existence; back to quantum probability. But the effect was immediate. While still moving incredibly fast, they stopped speeding up. Started to coast, with Jupiter as big as a house in the viewports, and growing larger by the second. Laser beam was still there, but had nothing to push against, unless someone refocused that ray.

"So… how d'ya want it? Good news first, or bad?" Lee asked them, still staring at his blinking red navigational figures.

"Good news," chimed Alan, daring a hopeful half-smile.

"Good news is, I c'n get us past Jupiter, barely… but bad news, we're gonna fly straight through th' worst o' that radiation belt." Said Lee. Staring hard at John, he added, "Jase, get th' twins down ta th' storm shelter. And y'rself, too, _natcherly."_

Naturally. John nodded grimly, saying,

"Let's go, you two. Emergency radiation protocol."

Gordon didn't like it, but he went. They'd practiced this drill in simulation so many times, that both of the boys could take shelter half-asleep and in their skivvies. Alan was slower to move. Unstrapping to rise from his seat, he said,

"What about _you_ , Uncle Lee?"

Captain Taylor gave him a quick, mirthless grin.

"This ol' spacesuit's been through worse, Alvin. You 'n Godfrey's th' ones in danger. Now, get outta here, _scram!_ I gotta ship ta fly."

Had Alan listened closely, he would have caught who _wasn't_ being warned, but his attention and concern were focused on Lee. Long story short, he and Gordon allowed themselves to be escorted down to their small, heavily shielded "storm shelter", which was meant to withstand a Coronal Mass Ejection, or concentrated Gamma Ray Burst.

Alan keyed up the access code, causing the two-foot-thick, lead-and-water lined hatch to swing open, heavy and slow as a bank vault. Next, he and Gordon glided within, but John did not. In fact, their brother had started closing the hatch on them.

"Hey!" objected Gordon, starting to reach for the narrowing gap. John shouldered him back inside, using muscle and suit-power, both.

"Sorry," he said. "Um… something convincing. Gotta go." And then he slammed the hatch, adding, "Eos, it stays sealed until we're clear, or till help arrives. Whichever comes first. Understood?"

More camera blinks, much of which he chose not to translate. The suit was contracting wildly, as well, trying to indicate backward movement. Females, he was learning, could be very difficult to deal with in emergency situations.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Earth's ionosphere, over distant, blacked out Asia-_

Scott and Kayo were near enough, by this point, to see the swarm of power-collection satellites, floating serenely like point-balanced pyramids. Their power was still being stolen, converted to microwaves and concentrated to a vanishing point above the stormy Indian Ocean. Scott's heads-up display highlighted the invisible beam in bright yellow. Behind the cloud of satellites lay Earth, blue-green and beautiful. Scott couldn't help smiling at the sight. Almost, he could see why John loved it, up here.

"Got eyes on the target," he reported to Island Base. A second or two passed before a pained sounding,

"Eh- F.A.B, S- Scott," was whispered back in reply.

The pilot winced sympathetically. Poor Brains was apparently nursing the devil of a hangover. Having been there, himself, Scott could empathize. Then Kayo, who had better eyes, tapped his helmet and said,

"Hang on a tick… what's _that?"_

Her gloved hand pointed past his face at one of the gleaming plasma-collectors. Or, rather, at the rickety, cobbled-together wreck of a pirate ship that was sneaking up alongside it.

"What the h*ll?!" blurted Scott, once more Mr. Mission. " _No_ , dammit! Unidentified ship, back away from that collector! It's been tampered with, and it might…"

Too late. The bulge-y, scrapyard special drew close and extended a long, jointed antenna, intending to glean some free power. Sensing the pirate ship's approach, the booby-trapped satellite flipped over, turned bright, seething red, and then exploded. An expanding cloud of glittering shrapnel rocketed outward, racing at everything in the vicinity; including the ship, other satellites, and two frantically dodging IR operatives.

"Island Base," Scott shouted, "We have a situation!"


	23. Chapter 23

Hi, again! A short one today, as duty calls. Thanks, as ever, for reading and reviewing. :)

 **23**

 _Space, high over Asia-_

Scott Tracy maneuvered and "flew" without really thinking. Grunted a lot, though; dodging waves of fast-moving shrapnel. One exploding satellite had set off the others, causing daggers of blazing-hot metal to blast forth in every direction. Not his usual thing. But on the bright side, all of that sneaky, unmentioned time Scott had logged on John's videogames, saved his life and Kayo's, now.

Exo-pod controls were simple enough; all he had to do was stay calm, move fast, and play hard. Crap-ton of incoming, though, its rate increasing with each new explosion. They had to get out of the "rain", Scott decided, before it got too thick to dodge.

Nearest shelter was the pirate ship, which was still in one piece, though pocked with tiny explosions, and listing badly to port. Scott gunned his rockets, grunting,

"Hang on… Kay… _urf_ … We're going in!"

"Into _that_ relic?" she objected. "A dirty look would blow it apart, Scott! We'd be better off out here, with a cricket bat!"

"Got… _uhn…_ a better idea?!" he demanded, zipping in low over dark, mismatched hull-plating. On closer inspection, the vessel did not reward the eye. It had evidently been patched together from drifting wrecks and old colony ships; most likely at one of the many illegal chop-shops which infested the asteroid belt. No transponder signal, of course.

Scott blew past at least seven names and designations… Eden, New Hope, 5B-71, Macross, Galaxy-4, Voyager, and something completely unreadable… before finding an access that actually functioned. Clamping onto the hull with magnetic boot soles, he set to work on the hatch, which was locked up tight.

"Haven't exactly rolled out the welcome mat," he groused, pulling out his multi-tool. Something dinged his helmet, making a noise like rocks striking a tin bucket. Felt a migraine begin to erupt, just behind his left eye. Great. Wonderful. Perfect timing.

 _'Back to business, Scotty-boy,'_ he told himself, _'or there won't be enough left of you to wipe off the hull with a rag.'_

Eyeing the sparking old lock on that hatch, Scott changed the setting on his multi-tool and current best friend, then touched it to the keypad. Would marry the d*mn thing, if it just came through for him, now.

"Come on, _come on…!"_ Scott urged, while Kayo blasted at incoming debris with a laser weapon she shouldn't have had. He'd have said something about it, but… yeah. Busy.

The Earth shone blue-white and beautiful on one side, if maybe a little too close. On the other, a firestorm of exploding satellites filled space with a host of new stars. Probably less than five seconds later (but felt like a year) his multi-tool flashed, and the hatch swung jerkily inward. Scott sagged with relief for a second, before diving into the ship with Kayo on top. That was the plan, anyhow. Had to back up, retract the exo-pod's wings, and sling Kayo down into his arms, first, _then_ dash through.

The airlock was barely large enough for the two of them, but just then, he didn't mind cozy.

"Island Base!" Scott panted, starting on the airlock's inner hatch, while Kayo sealed up the outer. "Island Base, this is Scott! Do you read?"

"P- Please…" came a thin, little whisper. "Do not sh- shout, Scott. I c- can hear you. What is, ah… is y- your situation?"

His blood pressure spiked again, as that migraine threatened to pop his left eyeball right out of its socket. As he often did when worried or hurt, Scott resorted to sarcasm.

"Yeah… sorry to raise my voice, Brains. It's, um… a little intense, up here. What with all these exploding collectors, and having to take shelter in an ancient God-d*mn _pirate_ ship. But, hey… no problem. How 'bout you? Anything new, on your end?"

The airlock reluctantly pressurized, being a pre-conflict relic of NASA; still marked "ISS", and stamped with a peeling American flag decal. Scott paused in his rant to touch those faded red-and-white stripes. Commed a picture, even. For Dad, he told himself. By this time, Brains' holo had appeared, looking sweaty and pale.

"Scott, I am, ah… am n- not certain that entering this sh- ship is your best course of action. I have used your b- beacon to track its t- trajectory, and it seems to be, ah… be crashing. It will strike the Earth somewhere in, ah… in W- Wisconsin."

 _Wisconsin?!_

"Oh, sh*t…" murmured Kayo, darting over to float beside Scott. "Wisconsin's a no-fly, no-entry zone, Scott, a…"

"Toxic wasteland, like New York. I know," he responded, feeling that headache turn suddenly thermonuclear. "We've got to find the bridge, and get this crate flying, again. Might run into some opposition, though. Don't suppose you've got any _other_ non-standard equipment with you, Kay?"

She smiled at him through the helmet glass, and reached down into her sash pouch.

"Funny you should ask, Fly-boy. If there's one thing Dad taught me, it's that a Tracy is always prepared. There was Brains, stocking 3 with all sorts of cool stuff, and I thought: _why not Christmas for Kayo, too?_ So, I picked up a few things."

Pinched them, more likely, but Scott was not in the mood to quibble. One of her acquisitions turned out to be another pistol; heavy, dark and sleek as its brother. Good thing to have, on a pirate ship.

"Okay, Kiddo," he joked. "You're in the club."

She flashed him a quick, savage grin.

"Again? Thought I won _that_ honor ten years ago, back on the ranch."

She had, too. By keeping up with Scott and John through every challenge they'd thrown at her, and making up some of her own. Now, she braced at the airlock, which was a mere five seconds from opening, according to its hatch-side timer.

"Know how to use that thing?" she asked him, only half joking. "On anything more threatening than a laser-tag flasher, I mean?"

All set to be outraged, Scott opened his mouth, and then shut it, again.

"In theory," he admitted, a little defensively. "I'm a rescue pilot, Kay, not a d*mn gunslinger."

"Right, then. Better let me do the shooting, Scott. We'll add that to training, first thing we get back."

The hatch buzzed, then swung open. They'd taken up positions on either side of the hatch combing, just in case someone was waiting on the other side with a blaster. When nothing happened for a few minutes, first Kayo, then Scott swung out into the passage, beyond. It was a dim, twisting corridor, lit by flickering amber battle lamps, and dense with sharp-smelling fumes. Electrical fires, fuel leaks, pirate B.O.; take your pick.

In a regular ship, the way forward would have been well marked, with deck maps on the bulkheads in each cabin, and bright red "you are here" stickers to guide them. This vessel had maps, too; not one chart matching the next, or the ship as a whole.

Scott shook his head, muttered a few choice curses, then chose a direction and began gliding forward. Kayo paced him, keeping close in the dark, jumbled passageways. Every so often, alarms went off, but were quickly choked silent, as something new shorted out. Constant pings and thuds made it clear that the party outside was just getting started, and that it would be wise to move on… if they could just find the d*mn bridge. No way to scan the rogue ship, and (of course) no specs on file. Who would confess to _owning_ this heap, much less have it registered with the Space Corps?

Twenty minutes passed. They moved from military transport, to pleasure yacht, to prison ship in the space of three mismatched cabins. Next came part of a cargo vessel with flashing alarm lights and a weird, alien voice endlessly repeating the same foreign warning. No crew though. In fact, if he hadn't seen it in action, trying to steal power, Scott would have thought it a derelict hulk.

By this time, they'd got hopelessly turned around; lost in Frankenstein's nightmare of a haunted spaceship. Scott was ready to bite steel and spit bullets, when at last they reached the tub's U-shaped bridge. Not that things were much better, up there. The hatch was stuck partly open. There were fires at the weapons and helm stations. Two crewmen were present; one still strapped to his seat, unconscious, the other huddled in midair with a burnt left arm and shoulder.

Kayo shot forward, med-kit out, in place of her weapon.

"Scott, I've got these two," she told him. "See what you can do about the fires!"

"Sure. No problem," he muttered, gliding up for a look at the comm station and status board. Waste of time. Like a robot head on a horse's body, the bridge computer had no idea what was going on, or how to operate what it found itself grafted to.

"Must be VFR, only," he said in disgust. "Strictly visual/ manual."

At least, there was a fire extinguisher, floating at the end of a Velcro tether. Less than half full, but good enough to put out the flames with; adding still more tang to that dense, grainy air.

"Miracle this thing's even space worthy," Scott grumbled, setting the extinguisher aside to float. Might need it again, soon…

He had to wipe grease off of gauges and panels, in order to read them. A glance at the view screen showed the Earth looming closer than ever. Scott hit his comm.

"Island Base, from, uh… derelict pirate ship. This is Scott. Do you copy?"

He got a surprise by way of answer, because instead of Brains, it was Grandma. The slim, white haired woman looked tired, but ready for action.

"Loud and clear, Scotty. What seems ta be the major malfunction?"

"Everything! And where's Brains, Grandma?"

"Throwin' up in the bathroom. Poor boy's got a bad head. Won't be touchin' demon alcohol, again in a hurry, I expect."

Wincing, Scott tried another tack.

"How about Virgil?"

Grandma's silvery eyebrows flew halfway up her forehead.

"Y'r brother just got outta surgery, Boo. He's so doped up right now, you could hit him with a truck and back over him a few times. Wouldn't feel nuthin' atall. Now, _can I help you_ , Scott?"

Mentally ticking off brothers, friends and assorted relations, Scott realized that he was, indeed, down to his silver-haired granny, an untested Navy officer, Penny and Max.

"Uh… right," he said to her. "Let me get back to you on that one, Grandma. Tracy, out."

Palming his comm off, Scott whirled in midair to face Kayo, who'd finished bandaging the pirate he thought of as "Unconscious Headwound" and started on "Burns".

"Either of those two able to answer questions?" he demanded. The migraine needed another whole head, as it had now completely filled _this_ one. "The computer's a total loss, and I'm not ready to hand over the keys to Thunderbird 1."

"'Fraid not, Glorious Leader," Kayo responded, looking up from Burns, who was crying. "But that's why they pay you the big bucks. Make it work, or you're out of the club."

"Pay me the…? I get an _allowance,_ like everyone else!" he snapped. Then, wishing that he could operate the ship without actually _touching_ anything, Scott hauled himself into the grimy helmsman's seat, and strapped in.

"Here goes nothing," he grunted, reaching for the big, dented steering yoke.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Ross Island, Antarctica, in the busy command centre-_

The attack was brutal and swift. Nearly succeeded, too; for Nikorr was too busy following the results of their blast, to notice his scheming second. Hadn't suspected a thing.

That Thunderbird 3 had been struck, and pushed into Jupiter's grip, they all knew. What would happen next, whether the Bird's weary pilots could save her, was the subject of _almost_ everyone's rapt attention. A few private bets, even.

Kyrano had been at the comm station, eyes on the split viewscreen. Half showed the heaving grey ocean without, half was trained upon space, and the stricken ship. After that, well… he'd had to scan his people again, to learn what had happened.

Sensing vulnerability, his second stepped forward and lashed out at Nikorr's barely-shielded mind. The psionic equivalent of a sucker-punch, it rocked him back a few steps, and blasted the past ten minutes… all of his short-term memories… completely away; burning synapses and breaking chemical bonds. Hurt like h*ll, too, as some unwelcome part of him noted.

Two things saved Nikorr Kyrano, that day. First, he could respond to attack without conscious thought, firing back at his rebellious underling with a blow of such power that it cracked the man's skull. Second, no one jumped in to back the would-be assassin. The man dropped like a felled tree, dead before he struck the polished stone floor.

Having seemingly jumped in time, from watching the viewscreen to standing there over a dead man, Nikorr looked around the command centre, breathing heavily. No one met his gaze. Nor did anyone else attack him. He stood there a moment, gathering himself. Trying to decide what had happened.

Ask…? No. Too weak. Too uncertain. The only sounds for a long handful of seconds were his own breathing, and the beeping, humming machinery. A swarm of crystalline power mechs crouched low on his right shoulder, glowing like stars. One of them bulged, and then split into two, raising his rank to 13. The Hood had not had so much power, and neither had the previous Kyrano… Tanusha's father.

 _"Anyone else?!"_ he challenged, needing to steady himself. To feel in control.

The command crew, all seventeen men and women, dropped to one knee in utter silence. Nikorr surveyed their dark, lowered heads, feeling very alone.

"Clean it up," he said to them, meaning the body. His head hurt, and he felt… confused. Wanted… something to eat, and someone to talk to, but dared ask for neither. Just turned and stalked from the room.


	24. Chapter 24

Hi, again! Lots going on, but I always find joy in writing. Hugs and thanks to Bow Echo, Guest and Whirl Girl, for providing me with feedback and guidance. You're the best, guys!

 **24**

 _Jakarta, on the second floor of the gutted Grand Central Mall-_

Sherna Lasangah walked slowly backward, in the clutch of four terrified children; worthless gun in her hand. She was surrounded by the low crackle and hum of a hundred-thousand drones, dotted by the tiny, shifting red spots of their targeting lasers, very much in their sights. A narrow aisle had been cleared through the expectant swarm, allowing the tense young woman a means of retreat.

The Mechanic stood staring at her, muscular arms folded across his broad, armoured chest. He radiated cold menace; like a tiger crouched in the underbrush, ready to spring.

The distance from security kiosk to emergency exit couldn't have been more than ten yards, but it felt like miles to Sherna. One of the children was hiccupping moistly, doing his best not to cry. All of them held so tight to her legs and free hand, crowded so closely, that each backward step was a tight-rope balancing act. She was sweating, but tried to project calm for the little ones, who'd already been through so much.

Trash and glass crunched underfoot as she inched for the door, step by cautious step. Finally, the officer bumped against rusted, flaking metal. The exit. There was no handle or push-bar… not anymore… but the door creaked slowly open at her touch. Wind and sunlight came through the gap, like the breath of Heaven.

Without taking her gaze from the watching killer, Sherna waved her hand urgently backward, indicating that the children should flee. Go, they did, but they pulled her along, too; their little hands not turning loose. Two steps from freedom, and a frantic call to Aunt Menna…

Then, all at once, his laser targeting sight glowed blood-red in her vision, blocking out everything else. In a low, ugly rumble, he said,

"No pursuit. No interference."

"I heard you the first time," Sherna snapped, sounding much braver than she felt. The Mechanic snorted. Then, his target-lock shifted. Moving with inhuman speed, he raised and fired his weapon. A bullet hissed past her. Clipping the top of the little girl's ear, it sprayed them all with plaster and concrete as it buried itself in the wall. The noise of blast and strike echoed like thunder, but nobody screamed.

"Don't test me, Officer," he snarled at her. "I don't play by your 'rules'. You'll never see it coming, unless I decide to have fun."

Sherna drew the girl's bloodied head against her own heaving side, shushing her whimpers. To the Mechanic, she said,

"Keep them out of this, coward. They're only children!"

She was shaking, now, as much from rage as from terror; expecting very shortly to die. But all he did was laugh at her; a brief, grunting bark.

"Nits grow up to be lice," he said.

Once again, the laser targeting sight burned her eyes, which watered and squinted, but did not flinch away. Perhaps she was going to die, now, but she'd do it standing, thinking of others, as French had done.

"Get out," the Mechanic rumbled, adding, "And see that you keep your end of our bargain. I'll be in touch… _Officer."_

Kane looked on, as the young woman backed out of the nest with most of his portable insurance. Stupid, really. Why in the h*ll had he let her escape?

Shaking his tattooed head, Kane glanced down at the boy, whose small sister was smiling, then ducking her face behind her brother and slyly peeking back out at him. Flirting, in the manner of small females, anywhere.

Jerking his head at the rust-eaten, half-open door, Kane said to them,

"There goes your chance to get out."

But the boy shook his head; lank, blond hair flopping into his eyes, thin face entirely earnest.

"No, sir. We're staying with you. Police means you have to run and hide, or they'll take you away, and no one will ever find you, again. I know what they do… and I don't trust her!"

Kane shrugged and turned aside, already firing up his jet-pack. Then, as a thought struck, he powered down again. Scarcely glancing at the boy, he said,

"I intend to go into battle. People are going to die. Not vermin. _Real_ people. Kyranos, Tracys… maybe me, if I haven't planned this thing right. Maybe _you_. Still interested?"

Ilya stood up as straight and as tall as he could, despite Sissy's chuckling, bouncing weight. His brown eyes were huge, and shining with fierce pride.

"Yes, sir. We're interested. We're here… and we won't run away from a fight."

The Mechanic looked him up and down, then shook his head and turned away, again.

"Makes no difference to me. Find a weapon, and learn how to use it. Don't shoot the mechs."

"…Or you'll kill me," Ilya finished for him, matter-of-factly.

Kane snorted, amused.

"You learn fast," he admitted. "We leave in the morning. Be aboard, or get left behind. I don't care which."

Then, he shot away through the air like a thunderbolt; everything Ilya wanted to be. The boy had never heard of the Kyranos, or the Tracys, either… but both had just become Ilya's sworn enemies, because they were _his._

 _"Find a weapon… learn how to use it,"_ he'd been told.

"Yes, sir," Ilya whispered, feeling his sister's thin arms twining warmly around his neck. "I won't let you down."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, closing rapidly with the massive king of the planets-_

John glided back into the noisy cockpit, noting that Captain Taylor had switched to the copilot's station.

"They tucked away, safe?" Lee asked him, looking over, as the redhead hauled himself into the hot-seat.

"Yes, sir," he replied, strapping in. "They're not too happy about it, though."

Lee ran a big hand through his bristling, brownish-grey hair.

"Well," he drawled, "assumin' we gets through all this in one, uncooked piece, they c'n feel free ta come take it up with me… but I ain't holdin' back none, so there's likely ta be some wrecked furniture, spilt drinks, an' busted egos. Won't be mine, neither."

"I'll be sure and break out the first aid kit," said John, keeping a straight face. Gordon, of course, could punch out a lightpole, while Alan was eel-quick, from having to all the time dodge his big brothers. But Lee changed the subject, saying,

"I got us a course laid out, but it's gonna be close, Jason. I'll need ya ta…"

"Thunderbird 3, this is Jove Station… or it will be, in just a few months. You guys are coming in awfully fast… everything okay, over there?"

The voice was gentle and anxious; the holo-image that went along with it, young, self-deprecating, and classically handsome. Also sparking and breaking up a little, from all of that rising radiation.

"Conrad!" John greeted him, lifting a hand from the rocket controls.

The blue-eyed, dark-haired young spaceman waved back.

"Hullo, John! GDF… Well, Pete McCord... said you all might be headed this way. I take it this isn't a social call?"

"Course it ain't, Charlie," Lee cut in, with a broad, mustache-framed smile. "We come all this way ta see why that over-priced heap o' yours ain't gotten no further than _this,_ in two-an'-a-half years o' puttin' along! Maybe better drop another hamster on th' wheel, ya think?"

Charles Conrad, who never took insult, smiled back,

"It's squirrels, not hamsters," he joked of his brand-new, specially-shielded space station (still being towed out to Jupiter). "I've got all five of them on there, already, running their little hearts out. Some of us aren't blessed with ion drives and laser-powered sails, you know. We peasants have to make due with old-fashioned rockets."

Then, smile fading a bit, Conrad said,

"Seriously, though, you're coming in awfully fast. According to my engineer…"

"Who prob'ly got hisself a mail-order degree from F.U.," sniped Lee, peacefully returning to his figures.

"…You'll be scraping the cloud-tops, and absorbing enough radiation to flash-fry an elephant… in a bank vault."

Thinking of Alan and Gordon, John mumbled,

"That's not good," but otherwise didn't say much. He'd helped rescue Conrad with Virgil and Alan, awhile back, and had joined his brothers in recommending the young man for the Jove Station posting, but didn't know the guy all that well, really. Also, y'know _, social stuff_.

"I take it that slowing down or stopping isn't an option?" probed Conrad, hugging himself and looking rather concerned.

"At this speed and distance, we'd slow down just enough to get pulled into Jupiter," John admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck, and trying to seem casual. "We need all the energy we can get, not less."

"Let's focus on the positives," Lee cut in. "Pretty sure we'll be breakin' all kinds a' historic records, here… plus evenin' out our tans. Besides, we got force shields."

Conrad's image glanced down and to one side, apparently studying some sort of data feed.

"So do we," he announced brightly, catching on. "Heavy-duty ones! How about I use my station to slap the tightest field possible on Thunderbird 3, until you're around Jupiter's limb, and out of range. It'll block _all_ EM radiation, though…"

"Meaning we'll be blind?" John guessed, frowning slightly. He could fly IFR… he just didn't _like_ it. Scott would have been better at this; he was an instrument boy, all the way. Trusted his nav-comp more than his own eyes, whereas John liked to see where the h*ll he was flying.

"We fly blind, or we sizzle like a couple a' hotdogs," said Lee, actually managing to stretch and yawn in his seat straps. Must be nice to be ten-thousand years old, and above little things like worry, John reflected. Meanwhile, Taylor was musing,

"Field won't block our rockets, so's we'll be able ta steer. Jus' have ta use a little old-fashioned dead reckonin', ta get 'round that blindness thing. I'll call th' figures. Jase, here, c'n fly."

John nodded, seizing the controls a little more firmly, and taking a last, quick look at Jupiter; seeing the cloud bands moving at different speeds and at different levels, the dark, round shadow of Ganymede sailing along, and a monster storm, purple-red as a fresh bruise. Underneath, at the south pole, Jupiter was deep turquoise in color, and dotted with twining white cyclones. Looked like something that ought to be set in gold and worn as a ring… but utterly, implacably hostile.

Conrad's voice and image vanished for a moment or two, and then came back again, saying,

"Alright, Gentlemen. The field's powered up, and ready when you are. Best of luck to you, John… Captain Taylor."

Lee snorted and shook his head.

"Kid, I got more space in my armpit, than you've sailed through y'r whole Godd*mn life! Don't be measurin' us f'r coffins just yet, ya little punk!"

"Understood, sir. Sorry, sir!" Conrad apologized with face, voice and posture, together. Dad would have kicked his ass clear into next week, and told him to act like a Tracy. "Field's up in 3… 2… 1…"

And, just like that, comms went silent and the stars disappeared. Jupiter winked out like a shattered floodlight. John had to cut off a slew of alarms, then, as Thunderbird 3 did not like to be blind. For that matter, neither did he.

"Listen close, Jason," said Lee. "I'm gonna call out course corrections. You handle th' stick n' throttle. And, uh…"

He glanced over at John, blue-grey eyes softening just a little.

"It's been a pleasure, Jase."

"Thank you, Sir. Same here. Fire away."

And that was it, for sentiment. From habit, John looked forward, though there was nothing at all to see. Just velvety, nerve-wracking blackness. Everything came down to Taylor's gravelly voice, and his own swift responses.

"Increase aft rocket twenty percent… initiate port rocket burn, 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… end burn. Full power to ion engines on my mark… _now."_

And, so on. Captain Taylor was reading off his planned figures and course corrections, according to elapsed time, velocity, and the map in his head. With no frame of reference, John was totally lost. Could do nothing but follow instructions, and trust that Lee knew his business.

By this time, they'd put on their helmets. Eos could speak to him, now, but mostly kept silent; not wishing to distract him, or maybe just angry that he'd ignored her. Would have to deal with that later, though. Too much going on, at the moment. Each burn produced the sensation of movement, without the accompanying visuals, which made him feel rather sick, as he hadn't done in ages. The other thing he could feel was gravity. In less than an hour, they went from deep space weightlessness, to full-G, then 2Gs… 3… and climbing fast. It was like being smashed in a giant fist. John's suit could cope; was built for that sort of thing. Lee's, not so much. The older man was pale, his voice a harsh rasp, but he kept on reading out figures.

Then, they _WHUMPED_ , bounced and _WHUMPED_ , again; for all the world like a stone skipping across the surface of a pond… or high, swirling cloud tops. By this time, gravity had increased to a crushing 6Gs. Another hard, ringing _WHUMP_ shook the entire Bird, probably rattling Gordon and Alan like dice in a cup. John hadn't much time for reassurance, but he did cut the comm on, down in the storm shelter, so at least his brothers could hear what was happening. Lee was still talking, saying,

"Twenty second full starboard burn in… 3… 2… 1… Initiate burn."

About that time, Eos spoke through his helmet comm, very quietly.

"John, I have been monitoring your own physical data, as well as that of Captain Taylor. He appears to be experiencing cardiac distress."

The redhead risked a glance at his copilot, saw that Lee's face had gone greyish-white, and his brow was running with sweat. Breathing had roughened, too.

"… _and_ , terminate burn."

John cut off the rocket, noticing that Lee was clutching his right arm tight against his side, like a man in pain.

"Heart rate?" he whispered to Eos, though she always muted their conversations.

"Rapid and irregular, John."

Sh*t. Heart attack, most likely. The same thing Granddad had died from, all those years back. Nothing he could do about it, though. Not now. Any lapse of attention would send them plunging straight into Jupiter, where they'd be torn apart by howling, tornadic storm winds, or poisoned by radiation. Best he could do was keep flying, and hope they got through before Lee's heart gave out, entirely.

Another ferocious bounce shot them briefly out of the projected force field. Suddenly, John saw a nightmare miasma of streaming, yellow-brown gas, shot through with upwelling red. He heard Conrad curse. Then the force field caught back up with them, and all was once more as dark as a tomb. Maybe sight was overrated…

He'd been there before, in simulation, testing the suit; but the sim was like Jupiter, the way a kid's threadbare stuffed toy resembled a charging grizzly. Eos had raised suit power to maximum, but he'd rather have been able to share it somehow, with Lee.

Instead, John flew. That was his job, and the one thing he could do to help the struggling astronaut; get him the h*ll out of Dodge. Lost track of time. Just followed instructions, like a robot. Felt gravity peak, and then start to weaken, dropping off so that they went from crushed to their seats, barely able to breathe, to normal 1-G, and then weightless, once more.

After what felt like forever, the force field cut off, showing a black "sky" filled with stars, and… about the size of his fingertip… Saturn. Behind them lay Jupiter; no longer a threat, thank God.

Conrad's voice came over the comm, distant and staticky.

"Tracy? Captain Taylor? You guys okay, in there?"

"Let me get back to you on that, Conrad," John replied, setting the autopilot to what-the-h*ll-ever, and unstrapping to rise. "Eos, open the storm shelter. Tell Alan and Gordon to get medical prepped for a heart patient."

"Yes, John. I have already begun doing so."

"That's my girl," he said with a quick smile. By then, he'd reached Taylor, who looked worse than ever. Had lost not one bit of bravado, though.

 _"D_ * _mn_ , I'm good," Lee boasted, in a very faint, whispery voice. "Could navigate us out'n a black hole, if I had ta."

John helped him up out of the copilot's seat.

"Only place we're navigating now, is to medical, where you'll stay put and get some rest, or I'll sedate you with a crowbar. Now, shut up and save your breath, Sir."

About then, Alan came jetting into the cockpit, trying to be simultaneously angry, worried and relieved. All those expression changes made his innocent face seem about to explode. Probably would have punched his older brother, except that John was busy guiding the hunched-over, gasping Lee Taylor.

"Okay, next time, DON'T lock us up!" Alan protested. "Gordon was weird the whole time! He was like, _patient_ , and junk! It was eerie!"

Then, putting a hand on the stricken astronaut's broad, sagging shoulder,

"How's Uncle Lee?"

Taylor straightened up with a jerk, knocking Alan's hand away.

"Better 'n _you_ , short-stuff… Man pulls a shoulder muscle… everyone turns inta… d*mn nursemaids?!"

"Reaching for the crowbar," remarked John, blue-green eyes completely serious. Then, jerking his head at the pilot's seat, "Take over, Al? I've got a load to deliver."

Alan nodded, radiating bright blond hair like an enthusiastic dandelion.

"I got this, John. Smooth sailing, all the way to Saturn, I promise you."

Sounded good to John, and better to Lee, who admitted,

"Guess I've set enough records f'r one flight. Gotta leave _sumthin'_ f'r Conrad ta cut his teeth on."

Alan grinned, excited at the prospect of talking with his friend.

"I'll tell him you said that, Uncle Lee. Now, _shoo!_ Gordon's waiting in medical to help patch you up, and I'm sick and dang tired of sitting around, doing nothing." Then, with a big, all-encompassing gesture, he said,

"Relax, folks! Alan R. Tracy is officially in charge! There and home, before you can buckle your seatbelts! Just sit back, and enjoy the ride!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _On the bridge of a battered, chimera pirate ship, its orbit degrading, fast-_

Scott Tracy grumbled and muttered to himself, mildly surprised that the force of his headache wasn't enough to restart those inert, piece-of-junk engines. Kayo, who was finishing up with "Burns", called over,

"Try giving it a good ol' fashioned whack, Scott. That's what Grandma always says."

Scott was squinting his left eye (migraine central), but the crystal-blue right one looked thoughtful.

"What the h*ll," he grunted, "nothing else is working, and I refuse to crash, or be rescued, in this piece of sh*t!"

For want of a handier bludgeon, he sized the fire extinguisher and brought it down as hard as he could on the steering control panel, which already boasted plenty of gashes and dents. A ringing boom filled the bridge, waking the echoes and causing a layer of bulkhead to crash down onto the deck. Nice. Then the control panel lights came on, followed by a few stuttering spurts from the engine, and then a sustained, low-power burn. No wonder they'd been trying to steal energy, Scott marveled. He had an electric toothbrush, back home, with more zip than this.

The vessel shook and groaned, as the engine's thrust began spreading through an unhappy marriage of mismatched, spot-welded parts. Didn't _quite_ stop diving, but slowed, at least.

"You can thank me, later…" Kayo told him, gliding up smelling of disinfectant and smugness, "…and she's called _Starmaid,_ according to Dobbs, over there,"

"Names are for ships that were built, not effing resurrected. It deserves a stake through the heart, and a fast, decent burial," Scott growled. He wrestled with the controls, still trying for altitude. John or Alan would have been better at this, though he'd never admit it, out loud.

"Hey… hey, Scott… guess what?" Kayo snickered, nudging him with one hand, while clinging to the back of his seat, with the other. "You've just officially taken over command of a pirate ship, from her disabled crew."

"So, what?!" he demanded, blue eyes locked on the snowy, flickering viewscreen. On the bright side, their highjacked satellite problem had pretty much solved itself. Nobody would be stealing power from _those_ puppies, anytime soon.

 _"So,_ that makes you a pirate captain!" she announced, mock-saluting her brother. "Arr, matey, and all that… Of course, you'll need a better name… no one's going to be scared of the Dread Pirate Tracy… wait, I've got it! 'No Beard'! We'll call you No Beard!"

"Who needs a sister?" Scott muttered. _"I_ don't. Got along just fine for eight years without one. Free to God-d*mn good home! Now, shut up and be serious, Kay… I've got an idea. You know how to operate Thunderbird 5… remote-pilot her over here, use the mooring claw, and drag us back into a stable, safe orbit. _Now."_

Kayo's mouth opened, then shut again. Reaching over to muss up Scott's dense, springy brown hair, she said,

"Sometimes, Dear Brother, you border on genius. Aye-aye, Captain, sir… I'm on it!"


	25. Chapter 25

A short one, written with a pencil stub, on the last two pages in my notebook. By special request.

 **25**

 _Tracy Island, the nearly deserted infirmary-_

Captain Kraft… she was still getting used to the wonderful sound of that… sat on a hard metal chair, at Virgil Tracy's bedside, just watching him breathe. He was unconscious and bandaged. Also, strapped down, having apparently done some damage to the premises, the _last_ time he'd awakened and decided to ignore medical advice.

Funnily enough, she was both filled with incredible tenderness, and wanted him so badly that, had they been private, she'd have attacked him then and there, conscious or not. But, Max was present, too. He and Virgil were good friends; something Emma totally got, being a fan of machines, herself.

At rest, he looked younger. His black hair, un-gelled, swept over his forehead, and that teasing half-smile was absent; the mobile, sardonic eye-brow lift, wiped clean away. Still big, though, and very muscular. Every so often, he twitched in drugged sleep, causing the straps to creak, and the bed to shudder. Virgil was very much stronger than normal… but also very careful of her; very protective and gentle, a fact that went straight to her heart and, um… other things.

But, she was a ship's captain. Here on a mission to help repair Thunderbird 2, something that she manifestly could _not_ accomplish from the infirmary. Wanted to stay, had to go. Couldn't wake him to explain, or to say all the things in her heart. Emma stirred unhappily. The ring on her finger caught light, breaking awful fluorescent panel-glow into a hundred sparkling rainbows, like water sprayed from a hose, out in the yard on a summer day. His gift, and his promise.

"Wish I had some folding paper," Kraft murmured aloud.

Beside her, Max uttered a short, questioning _Breep_ , and cocked his squarish white head.

"Folding paper," Emma repeated, making gestures as though forming a basic paper crane. "You know, for origami. Comes in all kinds of colors, usually pretty stiff, but not like cardboard. Cardboard's a bitch to work with. Folding paper."

Max uttered a short, affirmative chirp. Then he took on a look of intense concentration. Briefly, Emma smelt coffee, then something else; something sharper, and a great deal more chemical.

After a moment, he projected a holographic color selection panel, displaying shades all over (and beyond) the visible spectrum. Cute, but she wasn't in the market for ultraviolet or radio paper, just then, so chose a nice forest green, instead.

Max projected a cheery yellow "thumbs-up" icon, then beeped again, and commenced to shudder. After a moment or so, three sheets of perfect, glossy green paper extruded themselves from the front of his carapace, making a sort of copy-machine whirring noise as they came. Emma smiled and accepted the paper, leaning forward in her chair just a bit, to bump her head against his.

"Thanks, Max," she told him. "You're a pretty amazing guy."

He tweeted a happy series of beeps and chirps, as Kraft selected one of the sheets and tested its stiffness between her delicately rubbing fingertips and thumb. Knew at once what she was going to make, and could see the exact series of folds it would take, to get there. Humming to herself, Emma began bending and creasing the paper until, there in her hands, sat a small origami Thunderbird 2. Max rolled forward a bit on his treads, craning his head inquisitively.

Captain Kraft held the paper Bird out on her palm for his inspection. The robot scanned her handiwork, uttered a short, thoughtful-sounding whistle, and then opened a panel on his back. A long, jointed arm unfolded from inside his body cavity, tipped with what looked like a surgical laser.

Emma held perfectly still as a narrow beam of red light shot from the laser's business end; watched with interest as it began tattooing " **2** " on the origami Bird, in all the right places. A thin, fragile wisp of smoke uncurled like a fern in the still air, taking away some of that awful disinfectant/ medicine reek. Finally, the paper Bird was complete, and Max put away his laser tool. Kraft turned her hand this way and that, admiring their creation from all sides.

"It's perfect," she said, smiling. "Thanks, Maxwell. I owe you a case of your favorite lubricant."

Then she stood up, noting the brand and weight of lube oil that Max projected for her. Next, Emma set the origami Bird where Virgil would be sure to see it, right on his wheeled bedside table, next to the water pitcher. Leaning down, she brushed the black hair off his face, kissing his forehead, his mouth, and that perfect cleft in his strong chin.

"Gotta go, Taz. I'm needed on the work site. Wish you were awake to hear me say this… but I guess there'll be other chances. Thing is, I love you, Tracy. My answer is yes, and it always will be. Take care, Big Guy… I'll be back, soon."

Never noticed Max's small, red, "recording" light. Just straightened right up, squared her shoulders, then turned and strode from the room.


	26. Chapter 26

'Allo! Back again. =) Thank you to Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, HelenSg, Akimakel and Pirate Girl for their valuable feedback. I do have fun with this!

 **26**

 _Jakarta, on the rusted fire stairs, outside of an occupied Grand Central Mall-_

Sherna Lasangah was a GDF peace officer first, and a frightened young woman leading four kids, second. She had a job to do, though she fully expected to see the Mechanic burst out of the mall's emergency exit, or to have a vast swarm of bug-mechs descend on them all. To keep herself calm, she spoke to the children.

"My name is Sherna, Little Ones," she told them, carefully testing the next pitted, quivering stair-step. "I am new to the station, but already I like it very well. What are your names?"

The youngest spoke first. He, it was, who kept hiccupping. Also slipped his grimy small thumb in his mouth all the time; a bad habit. He had dark hair and eyes, and his skin was like hers, golden tan.

"I'm Akash," he said. "I dunno where's mom and dad, no more. Please help me find them?"

She'd been in the act of swinging him over a missing step… they were some sixty feet above the ground… and couldn't help hugging the little fellow, whose wide, trusting eyes were fixed on her face.

"I will do all that I can, Akash," she promised him. It seemed to be enough, for he managed a watery smile. The oldest, a boy about the same age as the one who'd betrayed her, but with dark, tightly curled hair and brown skin, said,

"My name's Samir. The bugs ate up my mom and my brothers. Dunno why they din't eat me, too. I tried to fight 'em and help momma… but I wasn't any good, they just knocked me down." Standing there hugging himself, he started rocking back and forth; a boy's alternative to crying.

"You were very brave, Samir," said Sherna, clasping his thin shoulder. "The bugs saw you for a warrior, and brought you to the Mechanic… but now you are free."

He bit his lip and leaned against Officer Lasangah, too proud to directly ask for comfort, but grateful for her embrace. The next little boy pushed up against her, holding tight to Sherna's left leg. His hair was pale brown, and his eyes were hazel in the dying sunlight.

"I'm Jordan," he said. "Everyone was screamin' an' runnin', an' I din't know what to do. I'm scared, Miss. I want my mommy."

"Me, too," admitted the officer, guiding this one, as well, over that dangerous, crumbling gap. "If Amma were here, she'd make everything better, but I'm doing my best to be brave. Will you help me, Jordan?"

He looked up, then gave her a solemn nod, and a fierce little hug.

"It's okay to be scared sometimes, Miss. Mommy told me that. You just gots a keep goin', anyways."

"Very well," she replied, equally serious. "I'll try, if you will."

Sherna stroked the hair from his grubby, bruised forehead. Then, she turned to reach for the girl. She was a little beauty, with wavy dark hair, grey eyes and coppery skin. Had a bit missing from the top of one ear, now, thanks to the Mechanic, but still looked like a small, cast-off angel. She reached up with both arms for Sherna, saying,

"My name's Maryam. I live at the annex, an' my daddy sells flatbread. Please take me back, an' he'll give you some, Miss. It's really good."

Sherna's heart broke. Had she been braver, she'd have told the truth, but just couldn't extinguish the hope in Maryam's eyes.

"I am certain that I shall find it delicious, Princess," she said. "For now, though, we must get off of these stairs, and get to a place where I can call for help. We must be firm in mind and heart, now, or someone may fall and be lost. Boys take a great deal of watching, and _we_ have three of them!"

Maryam placed both little hands on her hips like a put-upon mother, and nodded.

"They run around _all over_ the place, and break stuff," she complained, adding, "Daddy says boys are a trial, an' that's why he's glad to have _me_ , instead." Then, "He'll be really sad, if I don't come back soon, Miss."

Sherna said, after a bit,

"Then, we must hurry along."

She loved them already. Could do nothing about what had happened, but maybe give them a future, somehow? A good plan, the Lieutenant decided; one that started with safety, right _now._

The sun was quite low in the sky, casting long, violet shadows. An evening breeze had set up, blowing across Low Town and over the mall's cracked, weedy car park; a wasteland of beer cans and derelict vehicles. The stairs shuddered and hummed with each cautious step, shedding big brownish flakes, and threatening to pull free of the wall.

Officer Lasangah kept them all moving, testing each stair in turn, while chatting of this and of that. Ended up having to carry Akash, who was small, and soon tired. Took them about ten minutes to reach the ground at that pace. The whole time, Sherna's back prickled with the expectation of a bullet or drone-strike. She felt _sure_ he was toying with them; releasing his prey as a cat will do with a mouse it has caught, just for the pleasure of hunting, again. She'd had to re-holster her weak little peace-keeping gun, and felt terribly naked, without it.

Once on the ground, they held hands and ran forward in stages, keeping low and using available cover to stay out of sight. Sherna made a game of it, offering to race, and letting them win, every time. Finally, they'd passed that last row of bent, shattered light poles, and run panting out through a wreckage-strewn overpass. There, at last, Officer Lasangah dared to rest, and to take out her powered down phone.

As the children collapsed all around her, coughing and gasping, Sherna tapped in her Aunt's work number. No answer. She tried again, and then again after that, because persistence might gain what affection would not. The fifth time, her Aunt Menna _finally_ picked up, looking frosty and disapproving; her long hair decently covered by a bright, spangled shawl.

"Sherna, how _dare_ you to call me at work, when you know that I… I… What is wrong, Child? What has happened?"

And then, only just not sobbing aloud, Sherna said,

"Ammaayi, he's here! He's in the mall, and nothing is to come near, nor fly overhead, or he will kill us all!"

"Who is here? Start from the beginning, Marumahal. You are not making sense."

Menna Mangalam had not become magistrate by accepting confusion or nonsense from those around her. So, Sherna told her everything; beginning with detecting that odd power drain, through the crash and her captain's death, to her encounter with the Mechanic. Ended with how she'd bargained for, and escaped with, four young hostages. Aunt Menna's eyes were quite wide, by the time Sherna stopped talking. Then, her expression turned grim. She had been quite a beautiful woman, once, and remained attractive in middle age, but very strong-willed.

"So, the Mechanic is here, and we wish him not to be… yet he must remain undisturbed in his plan."

"He will kill us, Ammaayi. He has said so, and I believe him," Sherna repeated.

Menna nodded briskly.

"Very well, then. Nothing shall fly, or approach that wretched ruin of a mall. I should have had that place pulled down, years ago, only people live there, so…"

But Sherna shook her head, no.

"Not anymore, Ammaayi," she whispered, for the children were beginning to sit up, and perhaps they'd been listening. Menna's expression darkened. She said,

"I will send a GDF ground car. Come as far toward the main city as you can. It will follow your phone signal. And, Child…?"

"Yes, Ammaayi?" Sherna responded, rising and dusting that form-fitting bottle-green uniform.

"Be careful. You have gained the attention of someone terribly dangerous. A demon of metal and flesh. I do not know that he will let you be, even if his demands are met, Child. And the GDF…" The magistrate shook her head, revealing a bit of silver-streaked hair in the process.

"Are helpless against him," Sherna finished, as she drew the older children around her and slung Akash back onto her hip. "Is there _no one_ who can stop him?" she whispered, feeling suddenly very alone, and terribly vulnerable.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, in the vast, empty reach between Jupiter and Saturn-_

John glided into medical, towing Captain Taylor behind him. The man's chest pains had increased, and his breathing was becoming a harsh, panting labor. Didn't want anyone making a big deal over it, though, and kept insisting that all he'd done was pull a muscle. Well, that, and curse a lot… but John had heard worse, and made him take aspirin, anyhow.

Gordon was ready at the treatment center, having primed its computer to deal with a possible heart attack. He looked jumpy and concerned, but masked it with humor, saying,

"Over this way, Guys. Guest of honor goes _here."_

John helped him to get the grumbling astronaut out of his beloved old spacesuit and into a medical coverall, then harnessed him up; agreeing that, _yes_ , it was probably just a bad sprain… _of course_ , he'd be out, as soon as the mistake was cleared up… and, _for certain_ , he could go right back to piloting, again. Just had to have a quick little check-up, first.

Gordon Tracy was their best field medic, not a doctor; but he knew how to push buttons and order a diagnosis. John hovered nearby, watching as Gordon got Taylor linked up, and then began scanning his condition.

"So… you were up there lifting thousand-pound weights, and arm wrestling John on max suit-power, Uncle Lee?" he joked, keeping up the pretense of a muscle-pull. Taylor snorted.

"Can't arm wrestle _no one_ in space, Godfrey. All that happens is ya end up rotatin' like a Goddam propeller. Believe me, I've tried. Y'r daddy, Pete an' me had ta come up with a new set o' rules f'r winnin'… based on… on who got sent spinnin' the futherest. Pete's th' little guy. He allus… allus lost." Lee was beginning to lose consciousness, being all at once very tired and sore. 6Gs would do that to a fellow.

"How about Dad?" asked Gordon, checking the readout and ordering a dose of beta blockers. Heart muscle was damaged, cardiac enzymes were present in Taylor's bloodstream… but not too badly. Not yet. "How'd _he_ do, Uncle Lee?"

"Jeffery?" Taylor scoffed, opening his eyes, again. "That man cheats like he breathes. Jeff Tracy don't like ta lose, Son. If'n th' game ain't goin' his way, he'll just rig th' d*mn thing. H*ll of a pilot, though. Gotta give 'im that. No one else coulda flown us out through them Martian canyons… durin' the worst sandstorm ever seen, or heard tell of."

Gordon smiled, despite his worry. His sandy blond hair, uncut for too long, was starting to form ringlets, and his half-shaven, bandaged face had a calmer look to it. Possibly because Lee's medical status lights were switching from red, to amber.

"I don't think Dad knows _how_ to lose," he said. "Even when the situation looks bad… like when he disappeared all those years… things always work out, where he comes out on top. It's kinda… I dunno…"

"Intimidating," John supplied. Safely, because Taylor had fallen asleep, lulled by painkillers and conversation. Gordon looked over at his tall brother, hazel eyes growing wide with surprise.

"But… you're an astronaut!" he objected.

"And you're an Olympic gold medalist… and we're _both_ convinced that Dad…"

"Could've done it all, better," Gordon finished. "He's just so… _big_. The legendary Jeff Tracy, and his five amazing sons." Then, "You ever want off of the ride, John? Just… y'know, go off someplace and live a regular, private life?"

"Um…" John rubbed at a knot of muscle at the back of his own neck. "Not sure I'd know how to do that, Gordon. I mean, first it was baseball, then the Space Corps, and now IR. What does a private life even _feel_ like?"

Gordon shrugged, bobbing in midair as comfortably as anyone, now.

"For _me_ … I think it would be getting up whenever I d*mn well please, going down to the beach every day, and having someone I love, who wouldn't be in danger because of who I am, and what I do."

John thought that one over for a minute, turning it around in his mind like a puzzling business card. Then,

"You'd get bored," he grunted. "You'd miss Thunderbird 4, and all that attention."

"Yeah…" Gordon agreed. "I got the coolest job in the world. Just… it's been the coolest job in the world for what feels like all my d*mn _life._ Sometimes… I just wonder, y'know? Am I crazy, John? Kinda feels like it, since I woke up with you guys all staring at me, and Uncle Lee pointing his gun up my left nostril."

"At your chest," said John smiling briefly. "Get it right. And, no… you're not crazy. It's been a h*ll of a road trip, is all. Even _Scott_ would need therapy, at this point."

Gordon chuckled.

"You mean, Captain Caffeine and Testosterone? Spilling his secrets to a doctor? Mister _'Swings Boldly into action, Wielding his Mighty… Rescue Craft'?_ Yeah… that'll happen." (Like John would lead London in televised karaoke on New Year's Eve.)

Indicating Lee, who hung there in medical harness, peacefully healing, John changed the subject.

"He'll get better?"

"Of course, he will!" Gordon insisted stoutly. "I mean… he's _got_ to. Who else 'll screw up our names, make passes at Grandma, and cuss us awake, in the morning? Guy deserves a medal, just for loving her cooking. That's gotta count for _something,_ in the great big scheme of things."

(And, holy crap… had he just counseled _John?!)_

His red-haired brother puffed out a long, relieved sigh.

"Okay. Thanks, Gordon. We take risks all the time. I know that, but…"

Gordon followed his brother's gaze back to the battered old astronaut, who'd muttered something unprintable again, in his sleep.

"…some folks we just can't afford to lose," the swimmer finished. "And we won't. Not while I'm on the job. It's handled, Bro."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Starmaid_ _, in low orbit, crossing Asia-_

Scott Tracy continued to battle, curse and cajole; fighting a scrap-worthy patchwork ship with weak engines and a gibbering computer. Also, the filthiest bridge he'd ever seen or set foot upon. Had he been able, Scott would have retracted his limbs and just floated there; a horrified, disgusted balloon. Only, this was no time for the squeamies.

The Earth kept on pulling, with a force that this zombie tub could not get away from. Scott was firing everything she had, even venting air from the aft-most cabins, and all she could was maintain her altitude. Sort of. Barely.

In the meantime, Kayo had reverted to her usual, very serious, business mode. She'd called up Thunderbird 5 on her wrist comm, and was patching into the station's helm. Or trying to.

"How's it coming?" he asked; not, like, to _rush_ her or anything, but…

"Scott," snapped the slim, dark-haired girl, not lifting her eyes from the image of Thunderbird 5, "You know how you specialize in daring rescues, yelling a lot, and sneaking pain meds?"

"What?!" the handsome pilot jumped in his seat straps, looking both angry, and _caught._ "I don't…"

"For the headaches, dummy. You're not fooling anyone, least of all, _me._ Well, my business is security, and pinch-hitting for whichever brother is out of the picture. I know _all_ of your jobs, and right now, I'm doing John's. Now, shut up and leave me alone, before 5 ends up all over Wichita, in pieces."

Tough to argue with that, only… Very quietly, Scott said,

"Um… you wouldn't happen to have a few _aspirin,_ in that med-kit, would you?"

Kayo fished something out of the kit, by touch, and skimmed it over. Small, foil packet, marked: Migraine/ Tension Relief, Extra Strength. He caught it out of the air, still fighting Starmaid's controls with one hand. Got the packet ripped open with his teeth and off hand, swallowed the contents, dry. Almost immediately, Scott began to feel better.

"Thanks, Kay," he mumbled, slightly red in the face.

"No problem, Brother Dear… but maybe fewer secrets, from now on. Especially when they're not, y'know… very secret." Then, "Bingo! Gotcha, you snotty d*mn ice-queen! Come to Kayo!"

Thunderbird 5's thrusters engaged on one side and on top, propelling the reluctant station out of her orbit. Slowly.

"Kay…"

"I _know,_ Scott! I'm hurrying, but 5's got an ass-load of inertia. Plus, her systems keep trying to fight me. John must've… _dammit…_ beefed up security. Big Bertha… does not… want… to _move!"_

Scott (who was having troubles of his own, trying to keep that mishmash bucket both out of the soup, and all in one piece) said,

"Does she have a code word, or something? Can't be just… _urf_ … personality. John doesn't… have one."

Kayo shot her oldest brother an irritated look. Needing to defend John, she snapped,

"Yes, he does. It's just… locked up in boxes. Code word, huh? Okay, what the h*ll: Beer, 5! The access command word is _beer!"_

And, just like that, Thunderbird 5's computer system quit fighting her, and started to follow commands. Promptly, even.

"Transparent as glass, sometimes, Brother-mine," Tanusha said fondly, mentally snuggling close. "I miss you."

Actually, felt something, then; very brief, very faint, and _very_ far off. Also, extremely surprised. Kayo's jaw dropped. Had she got through? Had she actually reached her brother? Just for an instant, she'd heard/ felt/ sensed: ' _Little Bit?_ '

Hard as h*ll to focus on steering the big space station, under the circumstances, but Kay managed. Kept her mind on the job; firing thrusters and checking distance, time and fuel burn. Trick was to get her here, in a d*mn quick hurry, while still leaving enough fuel to escape low orbit, with a ship in tow.

Oddly, since her brief, maybe-contact with John, the task felt easier… like something she could handle, because it wasn't new. She'd done it before, with Cirrus and Global-1.

"Scott, I take it all back. Sneak all the pain-meds you like. I'll even bake you some migraine-strength brownies. You _are_ a genius."

"Yeah. Thanks," he told her, once again bashing that flickering comm panel; filling the bridge with curses and echoing thumps. "Fun fact, here, Kayo… our ass is now dragging the stratosphere… got two minutes till flaming, tail-first crash dive, unless you can… _urk_ … pull a… d*mn miracle, _fast."_

"Aye-aye, Captain!" for Thunderbird 5 had arrived, like a great big, glittering swan. Kayo did not park her, or even slow down. She simply engaged the station's mooring claw, firing her space elevator at Starmaid like a harpoon. "Hang on tight, Scott. Get your helmet on. We've no time for fancy, or gentle." She'd already seen to the injured pirates; had no time to strap in, herself.

"What?" Scott quipped tensely. "No kiss? No reach-around? Bet you won't even leave me your number, afterword."

Kay scarcely heard him. In her mind, she _was_ that hurtling claw, prongs spread like talons, blasting down for a lock on _anything_. Anything at all, that wouldn't rip clean off under stress. Bow was the sturdiest section, being mostly one ship. Target acquired.

"Scott, lock everything up!" Kayo shouted, as that claw thundered down upon Starmaid, like a stooping hawk. "Seal blast doors! It's…"

A vast, crashing impact seemed to up-end the universe. Everything rang like the inside of a giant bell. All systems went dark. In the grip of the atmosphere, now, Starmaid began to shudder and twist; dropping like a sack of loose concrete.

Kayo had been hurled into a bulkhead, but _dammit_ , refused to lose consciousness. Keeping her wrist comm up and locked on, she screamed/ thought/ gestured: _"Retract!"_

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, in the gutted mall/ hangar-_

Another comm- ping. From Scotland, again. The Mechanic lowered his hands and stepped back, allowing his drones to take over building the aft engine mount. All around him, the great, ringing vessel was filled with scurrying purpose. Construction was going well. His mechs were having to forage further afield for raw materials, though. That was an issue, as Kane had a carefully scheduled plan, and could afford no delays.

Wanted no interruptions, either… but ignoring the call was not the same thing as avoiding it. He was going to have to respond, if only to keep from being tracked down and confronted, before time. Still… not here. In private.

The crowding didn't bother him, for Kane was long accustomed to being climbed, collided with, and antennae-brushed. The nest was a busy place, and he was its center, always surrounded by mechs. Needed psychological space, though, and a way to hide his progress. Thus, the move to a small interior cell with no viewscreens. There, he finally answered that call.

Minor insult, that; a summons from the head of the family was meant to be received with formality, in surroundings of appropriate opulence. The Mechanic had chosen a storage bin. _The_ Kane appeared as a holographic image, radiant with cybernetics and physical power.

"Madame," he said, inclining his head, just a bit. With distinct and forceful irony, he added, "How can I help you?"

Her guards would have slaughtered him for that, had he been in her actual presence. Well… they'd have _tried,_ anyhow.

"You can stop making trouble, and return to the stronghold!" she replied. "The families do _not_ fight one another. It is part of our agreement. You know that."

Kane merely shrugged.

"I know that I do what I want, and take whatever I need. I require no one's permission. No communal agreements. Not anymore."

Her nostril flared, and her eyebrow jerked, on the meat side of her face. On the other side, her target-lock flickered. Becoming angry. Though never strongly enough to control him.

"Enough of this!" she snapped. "Evan, there is a legitimate path to power, for you!"

Yes. One that led straight through his mother's shattered body and leaking fluids. And yet, she would doubtless throw the fight for him; dying with genuine pride in his power and skill. The h*ll with _that._

"The conversation is ended," he told her. "I will gain control of the greatest weapon and the mightiest AIs on the planet. When next we meet, _Madame_ , we'll do it as equals."

And he waved a hand through her image, cutting her off before she could snap a response. Family, Kane thought, as he stalked from that cramped little cell, was a real pain in the ass.


	27. Chapter 27

Hi, guys! As always, I don't own the boys... I just love them a lot. Thanks, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl, for reading and reviewing. Though it scares me a little, I still like to get feedback. =)

 **27**

 _Tracy Island, the crash site-_

For such a high-tech place, Island Base could be remarkably primitive. Particularly regarding transport. The world's most advanced air and space craft were housed here, but no one had thought to provide so much as a golf cart, for getting from point A to point wherever else.

Consequently, Kraft found herself hoofing it out to Thunderbird 2, in the company of four watchful and well-armed Marines. Night had fallen, by that time, and the place was alive with night-blooming flowers, flittering bats, and the boom and roar of heavy surf. There was a slim, shy moon out, and a handful of sprinkled stars, but once she'd left the house, the brightest thing around was her crew's portable floodlights. There wasn't a path, per se, but she couldn't have got lost; not with all the noise of generators, welding lasers and joking, cursing Seabees. Captain Kraft could've been blind in one eye, partially deaf, and distracted by love, and _still_ , she wouldn't have missed them.

Footing got a bit dicey near the short airstrip, what with all that splintered wood, lava rock and displaced hull plating. The Marines closed in, subtly; ready to catch her, if necessary, while trying to look like they _weren't._ Emma pretended not to notice, because part of effective command was knowing when to look the other way.

She got to the worksite with no mishaps. Was now close enough to smell the ocean, as well as hearing it. A strong breeze blew in from the sea, keeping those welding sparks lively. The giant hulk of Thunderbird 2 lay on her runway, covered in sling-mounted Seabees and scurrying mechas; bathed in glaring white floodlights.

Kraft strode up, seizing a hood and a laser torch from the worksite equipment rack. Effective command rule #2: Never be too proud to join your crew on the job. She had people on the nose, the port wing and the tail assembly. Also, three hull technicians whanging away at Thunderbird 2's enormous, gashed belly. A full crew of twelve… but no one had started work on the landing gear, yet.

"Rodriguez!" she snapped.

"Ma'am!" the dark-eyed Marine corporal responded, his weapon at port-arms.

"Form a perimeter. Interface with Wolf, aboard ship, and keep me apprised of developments on Jack… at need. I'm going to be busy."

"Ma'am, yes, Ma'am!" he barked, looking and sounding like he _prayed_ for an attack, just for the chance to do his job.

As Rodriguez saluted her, then pivoted smartly to relay instructions to the rest of the pack, Emma saluted back, and geared up for work. Was proud to be a captain, and enjoyed all the perks of command… but at heart, Kraft was still a girl who loved to roll up her sleeves and get dirty.

Emma had a fully-charged laser torch in hand, was just striding up to that pretzel-ed landing gear, when all at once, the bug mechs covering Thunderbird 2 stopped moving. As a horde, they simply went rigid, antennae fully erect.

Emma's danger sense went wild. Hitting her all-call, she shouted:

"Work crew! Off the wreck, _now!_ Vessel on high alert! Rodriguez, prepare to cover retreat!"

No one asked questions. Her Seabees dropped their equipment and began rappelling down the sides of Thunderbird 2. The Marines raced up, took positions, knelt on the tarmac, and made ready to fire. Rodriguez loped up to place himself between Kraft, and the mech-laden Bird. Cables hissed and thrummed. Booted feet rang against hull plating. Sailors cursed under their breath, and Marines thumbed the safeties off their crackling weapons.

"Fall back!" Emma commanded, feeling a certain tightness in her gut; a prickling along the back of her neck and her spine.

Then, one of the drones uttered a shrill, piercing whine; like a weaponized dog-whistle. The rest piped a brief response. Several men went down with punctured ear drums, but most remained standing as the bug-mechs began to move. There were thousands of them; hundreds of thousands. All that had attacked the house in the first place, all those months earlier. Each one now tore off a bit of neutronium steel fuselage; as much as they could carry. The noise was like clanking anchor chains, cellophane and small arms fire, multiplied a thousand-fold.

Emma counted heads as her crew came pelting over to get behind their captain and the tense, ready Marines. All but one was accounted for, when the entire swarm of cannibal mechs shot off of Thunderbird 2 and into the air; darkening the moonlit night like a cloud of locusts. The droning horde flew away north, taking bits of the wounded Bird along with them. Kraft counted heads yet again, once more coming up short. Turning to the crew chief, she demanded,

"Who's missing?!"

"Jenkins, Ma'am," said grey-haired Chief Clarke, looking worried. "Just recruited."

Emma would have ordered that he/ she be found, only hated to admit blanking on the sailor's identity. So, she turned to face Thunderbird 2, cupped both hands round her mouth, and bellowed,

 _"Jenkins! Sound off!"_

Almost immediately, they heard muffled yelling and banging. Saw a taut cable shuddering slightly, where it plunged through a man-sized hole in the hull. _Bingo._

"Go get him, Skipper?" asked the chief, ready to move. Meanwhile, her junior officers aboard ship were pinging incessantly, trying to raise her on comm. Kraft held up a hand, signaling: _wait._ She turned to Rodriguez, not wanting to risk any more of her people.

"Safe to go in?" she asked. One of the Marines…Briggs… had set up a portable scanner, and now was playing it over the hull.

"One life-sign, Corporal… Ma'am… no more bugs. Ship's clear."

Rodriguez grunted. Turning back to face Thunderbird 2, he studied the hull and rubbed at his own square, slightly bristly jaw. Then, he said,

"I ain't no structural engineer, Ma'am… but, from a tactical point of view… Yes, Ma'am. Looks safe, to me."

Emma nodded, but couldn't relax. Not yet.

"Thank you, Corporal." Turning to face Clarke, she said, "All clear, Chief. Go get our boy, and see that he gets some training in rope-and-obstacle work. _Soon."_

"Aye, Skipper," said Clarke, brown eyes crinkling with relief. As her crew set about their rescue efforts, Captain Kraft replied to her first lieutenant, letting him know that all was well with the landing party. Then, she considered who she might inform, back at Island Base. Virgil was out, for the time being, Scott up at the space station, Sneaky Pete off to Titan with the Terror Twins… Brains too hung over to see straight… Lady Penelope a puzzling unknown… and Grandma Tracy, just plain busy.

"Max?" she said, switching her radio to the island's short-range frequency. A series of warbles and chirps rewarded her, sounding like alien birdsong. He seemed agitated, if Kraft was any judge of machine-speak. And no wonder! Only Brains had thought that using the drones was a good idea.

"Okay, maybe you already know this, Maxwell, but our foreign buddies have de-camped and headed north. They've taken some of the Bird along with them, too. Tell whoever you need to, when the opportunity arises. I'm pulling my crew off the job, until I hear from Taz, Mrs. Tracy, or Hackenbacker. Don't know if those things plan to come back for more, but better to assume the worst. You got all that?"

He whistled and chirped, producing what sounded like a Morse code: _yes._

"Good enough, Max. And… careful how you break it to Tracy, please…" she said, casting a bleak glance at the gouged and tattered green Bird. "Just… just tell him there's been a setback. I'll handle the rest. No need to go into detail, until he's back on his feet."

…and ready for more of the worst.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, closer to Saturn than Jupiter, up in the cockpit-_

As always, Alan and Conrad had plenty to talk about. Besides both being spacemen, and videogame addicts, they were each the youngest in a family of heroes; certain, deep down, that they'd _never_ live up to all that. Well, not so deep, in Charlie's case; the guy had everything in the world, except confidence.

"I hope I can do this job right, Al," he said over the comm, after checking to be sure that no one but Alan could hear him. "I mean, Jove Station's a lot of responsibility. What if I screw up, again?" His big blue eyes were grave and concerned; his transmitted voice, almost a whisper.

Alan grimaced, thinking it over.

"Well," he said at last, "Scott sometimes gives me these jobs that'll force me to learn as I go, or prove what I've got. Other times," he shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Other times, it's just space-junk runs… or satellite maintenance… or relieving John up in Thunderbird 5. Don't know about _you,_ Conrad… but _I_ wouldn't want to be stuck all the time doing the easy stuff. Not that I'm as bad as Gordon, or anything. _That_ dumb-butt never met a risk he wouldn't jump into, feet first, just for the high. But, I like a good stretch, sometimes. It's just hard, when you're the youngest, 'cause everyone thinks you're a kid, and some of them helped change your diapers!"

Conrad laughed, and shook his head.

"Yeah, don't get my sister started on that one… or Jake, either, 'cause I threw up on him, once, and he _still_ brings it up at every. Single. Family. Gathering." Then, running a slim hand through his jet-black hair, "Maybe you're right, Al. Maybe the only way they'll ever see me as an adult is if I'm gone for awhile."

"And if _you_ start believing you can actually handle this," Alan reminded him. "Step one in any mission: plan the flight, and fly the plan. _Don't_ second-guess yourself, Bro. Life is hard enough, without becoming your own worst enemy. Leave that to the zombies."

Conrad's image smiled at him, a little snowy and faint, with the increasing distance. Then he said, shyly,

"I know you don't have time now, Al… but on your way back, once you've recovered those explorers… want to stop by? I'll show you guys my station."

"Got showers?" Alan asked wistfully. "I'd trade my least favorite brother for a hot shower, right now."

The young station manager grinned at him.

"Not sure where we'll put Scott…"

("Or Gordon, depending on how weird he's being…" Alan cut in.)

"…But, yeah, Al. Showers, I've got. Decent food, too. I mean, if you count freeze-dried steak and rehydrated potatoes."

"Dude," said Alan, leaning forward in his seat straps. "I haven't eaten anything that didn't come out of a dang squirt pouch, in _days._ I've started day-dreaming about Grandma's cookies! Freeze-dried steak sounds awesome. You, um… you've got a doctor there, too… don't you?"

Conrad's smile faded. Leaning into the comm pick-up, just a bit, he lowered his voice, saying,

"What's up, Al? Is someone hurt?"

"Naw… just a muscle-pull," Alan told him. "A really _bad_ muscle pull. In the, um… chest area."

Mystified, the station manager rubbed at the back of his head, mussing up all that free-floating black hair.

"Okay, well… whatever's going on, Dr. Culver can surely handle it, Al. We'll expect you, then, after the rescue? I'll save some hot water."

Alan nodded.

"Oh, we'll be there, Charlie, if I have to hog-tie John and Uncle Lee, _both_ , and take over this mission, myself!"

After all, he still owed them back, for locking him down in the storm shelter. And, what was one little detour, on the already-mission-from-hell?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, out in the aft airlock, preparing to "go for a walk"-_

He _wasn't_ just getting away from the others. Micrometeorite damage was a genuine threat, and hull-cams only showed you so much. As Granddad had put it, riding on Blue, with John held before him on the saddle, and Scott clinging behind, _"A man has to ride his own acres, if he wants ta find out what's goin' on."_

And right now, Thunderbird 3 was all the acreage he could lay claim to. Thunderbird 5 was a speck, too distant to see in the faint glow of the small Earth-Moon system. She was out there, though. He faced in the right direction and waved, just as soon as he'd tethered up and shot from the airlock, once more.

"Eos," he said.

"Yes, John?" she replied, contracting the suit around his ribs in a hug.

"Mute my transmissions, unless they're mission-critical. I've got to concentrate, and…"

"You would like to be alone. Your brain and body chemistry indicate elevated stress levels. As does the fact that you are needlessly surveying the hull when I… or that violence-prone troglodyte you insist upon harboring… could scan every square inch, in seconds."

The astronaut switched on his magnetic boots, getting a secure grip on the hull before shifting his tether.

"Maybe you could," he admitted, setting off around the rocket's circumference. "But I need the exercise, and it's always dangerous to rely too much on other people. AIs, I mean."

He got an air-puff kiss for calling her "people", even though Jaeger had been included, too.

"Understood. I shall remain silent as well, John, unless there is urgent need."

"Thanks, Sweetie," he said, still craning his head to look back at Earth. "I appreciate that."

'Cause, yeah… sometimes even _her_ voice was too much. So, as alone as he could get, John set out walking; thinking a lot of things as he inspected the hull. Took pictures of the odd ding and scrape… one fairly serious… as he slowly spiraled his way up the length of Thunderbird 3. At his feet lay bright crimson metal, sparking faintly every time he lifted a boot free of contact. All around and above him was deep velvet blackness, burnt through with stars, and… back _that_ way… Jupiter, still glowering.

For some stupid reason, he stopped walking a moment, faced Jupiter squarely, made a certain rude gesture, and said,

"Missed me."

…Although he wasn't finished with gas giants, yet. Saturn hung, ringed and serene, just over his right shoulder. But Saturn was a sweetheart, compared to her big, angry brother. Once again, he saw raging storm winds, purple-red upwellings and vast, sheeted lightning. Recalled murderous, pummeling gravity, and Captain Taylor, back in medical.

Was rude again (with both hands, this time), saying,

"Missed both of us."

It was just then that something… touched him. Kayo. Clear as though she'd been standing right behind him, John felt her leap on his back and hug tight. Heard, really faintly,

"Transparent as glass, sometimes, Brother-mine. I miss you."

"Little Bit?" he blurted, looking wildly around. And then, for some reason, John recalled all that he knew about using the mooring claw. How he'd rescued Cirrus and Global-1 with the aid of his giant stuffed-toy grabber. Easy. Sort of fun, even; although the prize was generally bigger than another teddy bear or unicorn for TinTin. The contact faded just as quick as he'd felt it, leaving John grasping at a thousand darting emotions. For one thing, he couldn't possibly just have heard Kayo. She was nearly eight AUs away, sunward. Cabin fever, or something. For another… he suddenly realized: _'I ought to call Ridley'._ Which he hadn't done, since before Venus.

Well… Granddad hadn't said that a man couldn't ride his own acres while composing emotional messages, right? And, how hard could it be, saying… um… saying _that?_ Pretty hard, actually. For him, anyhow.

John shook his head. Then, he set off walking once more, with the stars as a backdrop, trying to reason out love.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Starmaid_ , _torn between Earth and the mooring claw-_

The ship had lost power and guidance. At this point, Scott was fighting desperately, just to keep her from coming apart at all of her raggedy seams. Kayo was shouting something, but Scott didn't listen, grunting,

"C'mon, _c'mon!"_ between his clenched teeth as he pounded that worthless control panel. "WAKE UP!" Cursed colorfully and inventively, describing so many anatomical impossibilities, that Grandma wouldn't have stopped with washing his mouth out; she'd have knocked him flat on his arse with a fry pan. Managed to work in some prayer, too, because if God couldn't handle a pilot's mouth, he wouldn't have put it there.

One last thud and blistering insult did the trick, sort of. Three quarters of Starmaid came back online, allowing Scott to seal all her blast doors, and spark up the ghost of a force field. In the meantime, Kayo was remote-piloting Thunderbird 5; eyes wide and wild and faintly glowing.

"Come on, Bertha," she urged, keeping her eyes on that glowing blue image. _"Pull._ Just, not too hard." Because Starmaid was likely to tear straight in half, under any real pressure. The alarms had started up, blaring in about five different tones and languages. Metal shrieked and groaned. The deck shuddered.

"Hold together, Sweetness," said Kayo, "And I promise you the overhaul of your dreams."

Buffeted by Earth's atmosphere, twisting in the grip of the mooring claw, Starmaid was like a zombie fish, being fought over by a powerful angler and a savage, relentless whirlpool. Inch by inch, Kayo retracted the mooring claw, raking her lower lip with her teeth; not daring to blink or to look aside. In a similar situation, John had used the station's entire ring as a spool, but Kayo wasn't that confident. She fought her battle with gravity one step, one nudge, one whispered word of encouragement, at a time.

Finally, _finally_ , Starmaid stopped shaking. They were clear of the atmosphere, and peacefully gliding along toward Thunderbird 5. Scott whooped aloud and did a backflip up out of that grimy seat.

"You did it!" he shouted, darting across to seize and pummel his sister. "You really did it! Kayo, I could kiss you!"

Squeezed up tight against his powerful body, the girl stiffened, then blocked and twisted with her shoulder.

"Don't start anything you can't finish, Flyboy," she said, looking away. "I'm worked up, and all kinds of confused, right now. Can't be held responsible for my actions."

"Huh?" Scott's jewel-blue eyes grew puzzled. Inside the helmet, he cocked his head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She was saved from having to respond by a woman's voice, crisp and commanding, over the comm.

"Unregistered vessel, this is GDF scout ship L3. You are in violation of code 52, statute 10, which states that all ships in Earth orbit shall have a clear registry and transponder signal. Scans detect the presence of illegal salvage, which places you in violation of…"

"Captain O'Bannon?" Scott blurted, darting back to his seat and keying up her pale, frowning image. "It's me, Scott Tracy. And, this isn't my ship! C'mon, do you seriously think I'd willingly be caught dead in this derelict heap, much less _own_ it? Thunderbird 1 might catch something!"

Only, the GDF Captain didn't smile at his joke.

"Who's flying the ship?" she demanded, grey eyes hard as flint. By this time, 'Burns' had drifted up behind Scott. Pointed right at him, when O'Bannon barked her question. _Yeah. Thanks, buddy._

"Um… _me,_ but not because…"

"Then, that makes you her captain, Mr. Tracy. And you're littering, by the way. Hull plates and rivets are coming off that thing by the ton, endangering legitimate traffic. I'm going to have to write a citation."

"Wait… you're giving me a _ticket?"_ said Scott, not believing his ears.

"As you represent a genuine hazard to navigation, Mr. Tracy, _yes_ , I am. There was a disturbance reported in this sector of space. Explosions. I come out here, and find _you,_ in _this,_ surrounded by clouds of debris, where Asia used to have satellites. I'm sure you have a story. I don't want to hear it."

Scott Tracy's muscles bunched. The pirate quietly backpedaled on out of the bridge, snagging his buddy, 'Unconscious Headwound', on the way through. Meanwhile, Kayo just grinned, being too busy with Thunderbird 5 to butt in.

"Okay, listen, _O'Bannon,"_ he snapped. "I don't need this, from you. I just came up here with Kayo to investigate the satellite situation, and then got dragged into this crap-storm. This is _not_ my ship, I am _not_ responsible for this mess, and if you don't stand down, I'll…"

"What?!" she cut in, grey eyes blazing. "You'll call daddy?"

"Nope," he shot back, jutting an aggressive forefinger at the flickering screen. "I'll call _John."_

All at once, Captain O'Bannon grew very still, and icy cold. In a low, shaky voice, she said,

"Well, I'm glad _someone_ can talk to him. GDF-L3, out." And then, the screen went dark, except for the sparking and static.

Kayo whistled, still remotely reeling in Starmaid. Which, to be fair, _was_ surrounded by masses of junked satellite bits. She could see how that might look bad.

"Wow. That went from professional to thermo-nuclear in under a minute. You've got talent, Dear Brother. Ever consider a job in social work? Day care? Serving the homeless? I know you're a pirate captain, but still…!"

Nobody noticed the flare and pop of a bulbous, alien-looking escape pod, though it meant that Scott's chief witnesses were gone like his patience. In the meantime, the pilot's headache had returned, with reinforcements. It looked like being a very long night.

"I'm never letting John out of Thunderbird 5, again," he vowed, removing his helmet to rub at both temples. "Chain his ass to a spar, if I have to, but he'll be here to solve his own problems… Kay!"

"Aye, Captain!" she responded, giving her brother a cheerful salute. Her helmet, too, had come off.

"Don't call me that. You're a woman, sort of. Get O'Bannon back on the line. Talk to her. Calm her down."

Kayo cocked a slim, dark eyebrow.

"Because I have this magical gift for relating to females?" she guessed. "My amazing X-chromosomes?"

"One more joke, and I hit the self-destruct button, even if I have to make one, myself. Now, stop screwing around, and talk her down off the ledge, before she gives me a ticket!"

Except, Kayo was laughing rather than hopping to, like a brother would have done.

"I hear and obey, mighty scourge of the star-ways!"

Scott ground his teeth.

"Never mind _"free to good home"_! I'll _pay_ someone to take you off our d*mn hands! Anyone."

Kayo kissed the top of his head, enjoying herself, as she hadn't done since teaching Virgil those judo moves.

"Breathe, Scott. Picture daisies, ponies and trickling mountain streams. I'll smooth down O'Bannon and get you off the hook. Again."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Scout ship GDF-L3, in the cockpit-_

Ridley O'Bannon had palmed off the comm in a hurry. Now, she sat in the pilot's seat, forcing herself not to cry. _Not_ a stupid, heart-broken girl who should have known better. Should never have fallen for someone who couldn't return that level of feeling. Who, for all she knew, never gave her a thought, once out of sight. _Wasn't_ crying. Eyeballs were sweaty.

Then her comm beeped. A message. Signal was somewhat scattered, and obviously came from quite a great distance. Naturally. Almost, she didn't answer it, thinking: _what right did he have, to call now?_

And then, because (angry or not) she wanted to hear Tracy's voice, O'Bannon keyed up the message.

John's uniformed image appeared, frowning slightly. No locational context was possible, with the system they used. Nor could she answer back, because the message was a recording… but she still could see and hear _him._ He looked thinner, and rather space-tanned. Not watching his radiation levels, or eating enough, probably. His hair had got longer. Looked like he'd had to tie it back, or something.

"Wait, no…" he said, sounding unhappy. "Try again. Okay, the thing is, O'Bannon, I've been thinking a lot. You know… about us being… being together. Only, not right now, because I'm over here, and you're not. That's a problem, because I _want_ you to be here, except, not really, because it's dangerous. Only, that's not it, either. Not what I wanted to say. It's…" he sighed gustily. Then, "Start over," he said. "Um… you told me that you love me, which is good, and I'm glad. I mean… that you feel that way."

Ridley put her face in her hands, torn between laughter and tears.

"Oh, Tracy," she whispered. "Just _stop_."

Wanted to reach through and kiss him… but the message had been sent twenty minutes ago. Receiving no feedback, because she wasn't right there to shut him up, John blundered on, only confusing himself worse.

"Maybe I should've practiced more. Lee says I love you. I think he's right about that. I just… want to come home, when all this is over. I want to see you again. That's all." Then, as if hearing someone behind him, the red-haired astronaut frowned and looked away.

"Yeah… okay. Be right up."

He turned back to the comm pick-up, and smiled a little, saying,

"Have to continue this later, when I've come up with a better script. Call back, if you get a chance. We've been sort of busy, out here… but I like talking to you… gotta go. 'Bye. End transmission."

And now, she really _was_ crying. Replayed the message and saved it to play again, later. Saw that someone had tried to get through, from that unregistered scrap-heap of a pirate ship, which had been drawn nearly flush with Thunderbird 5. Scott, no doubt.

Well, she didn't feel like talking to him. Not now. Instead, wiping the tear film from her face with one hand, Ridley cheerfully added a few more zeroes to his fine, and then print-signed the citation and zapped it on over. After all, if you couldn't have fun with your inarticulate boyfriend's annoying family, who _could_ you have fun with?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta-_

Swarming drones struck everywhere, ruthlessly stripping all the valuable metals they could find. Iron, copper, gold and silver; all of it went, joining what they'd already stolen from Thunderbird 2. Electrical fires sprang up, and power went down, leaving the city in darkness. And somewhere, out there, Sherna was still creeping through Low Town with four small children, trying hard to reach safety.


	28. Chapter 28

Hi- hi! So short, it's embarrassing, but have to get ready for work, now. Thanks Bow Echo and Whirl Girl, for letting me know what works, and what needs fixing. You guys are awesome!

 **28**

 _Jakarta, inside the nearly completed hive ship-_

Activity had picked up tremendously, as though the ship needed to be finished right the heck now. Ilya passed through swarms of scurrying mechs, which parted to avoid him, or else just stepped over, if they were big enough. They held bits of torn metal in their mouths, and moved at top speed. Bumps and taps were a constant thing, as was noise. The whole ship rang and thundered with skittering feet and buzzing wings. He was used to it, though… to surfaces that pulsed with constant movement… and it didn't bother him. Just made jogging along the 3D metal web that filled the hold, even more fun.

He'd found a laser rifle. Nearly as tall as he was, the weapon hummed with power, and made him feel like a man. Only, it was tough to carry, with Sissy on his back, in her red nylon sling. She'd caught the excitement, too, and kept slapping his shoulders with her hands, twisting around to snatch at waving antennae, and kicking him with her foot, which…

Wait. Ilya stopped at mid-span, almost dropping his newly-found weapon. Kicking him? The boy turned around, to be sure that no drone was back there, rhythmically pounding his back. But, no… it still happened, even when he swung quickly around, like that. Which meant that _Sissy…_ somehow, her useless, flopping leg had started to work.

Ilya reached back and squirmed the altered backpack around to bring his sister in front of him, so he could look at her. The girl's blue eyes were wide with excitement, and she smacked his arm, shouting,

"Bubby, go! Go, Bubby! More run!"

He pulled her out of the hand-rigged sling and said, trying to seem stern and controlled,

"Sissy, can you move your leg? Can you show Bubby how you move your leg, now?"

She wrinkled up her nose at him, because it was more fun to run with the drones, than stand there and talk; but then, she did it. She kicked out with that weak, twisted leg, which could move now, instead of just flopping. It wasn't so twisted anymore, either. Just glittery with bright lines and shifting dots. Her little troop of crystal mechas glowed whenever she concentrated real hard, Ilya noticed. Sometimes, one of them would split into two; which he had no idea what that meant, but it was fun to watch.

"Sissy," he asked, "Can you stand? Can you stand up, like Bubby? Wanna try? I'll help you, Sissy. Let's try!"

And then, holding the small girl's hands, he placed her down on the arched, vibrating metal span. She looked very serious, was concentrating very hard, but the leg tried to buckle, anyhow, not used to holding up weight.

"C'mon, Sis," he urged her. "You gotta try hard. Stand up, okay? Stand up, like Bubby."

"Stand like Bubby!" she repeated, holding tight to his hands, and sticking her tongue out, in concentration.

Wobbled, sank, rose and swayed from side to side, but… just for an instant… managed to stand. He scooped her back up, again, pulling the small, scowling girl into a super-tight hug. But she hit him, screeching,

" _No!_ Bubby, _NO!_ Sissy stand! No more carry! No more be good!"

She was turning into an absolute brat, and Ilya couldn't have been prouder. Despite all her yelling and slaps, he kissed and hugged his struggling sister.

"No more be good," he agreed. "But you have to get better at standing, okay? And that means practice. When Bubby's practicing guns, you practice standing up. And… and hopping! Sissy, you know how to hop?! I'll show you!"

Crouched on a higher spar, surrounded by busy drones, Kane had been watching all this. Sibling interaction fascinated him, because he had none, himself. Scott and John Tracy were siblings, along with three others. Perhaps, having littermates gave them some kind of advantage?

Tough question to answer, but important, considering that he intended to nail their asses to his trophy wall. Among _his_ kind, weakness was simply not tolerated, so very few batches produced more than one child. In fact, littles weren't considered people, or given names, until they'd proven their worth to the family.

He had earned his… Evan… at ten years of age, after surviving his trials. Before that, he'd been Kane 2035, 18-B meaning that he was the second product of batch eighteen, in the year thirty-five. Kids were quite rare among the Kanes, now. _Male_ kids, like effing antimatter; brief and explosively brilliant. That he was very important to them, to _her_ , he knew. That he didn't give a f**k, he knew also.

Those kids, below… despite their various strengths… hadn't been important to anyone. H*ll, he'd have killed them, himself, if the boy hadn't been such a pest. All at once, Kane arrived at one of his sudden, no-going-back decisions.

He reached over, snagged some metal from the jaws of a passing drone, eyed the girl for a moment, and then began shaping something. He was a cybermancer; one with the power to bring metal and circuits to life. No trouble at all, making a leg; one that would grow with its owner, matching the meat limb beside it. Of course, she'd have to plug in and draw power, from time to time, like _he_ did… but at least she'd be able to stand up, and develop her other skills. The Kyrano-type mental stuff.

Ilya had succeeded in getting his sister to execute about two and a half hops. She was tired, but wouldn't quit trying, wanting escape from that backpack, like she'd finally got shed of the hole. Only, it was tough to balance on just one leg, and she needed a…

 **THUMP!**

Someone had landed on the span, behind him. Sissy's eyes widened. She stopped fussing and giggled, pretending to hide behind her brother, then leaning around to peek out. Ilya scooped her back up against the loose, empty backpack, took a deep breath, and turned around.

The Mechanic stood there, having risen from his landing crouch in one smooth, powerful motion. Flanking him were two massive hornet drones, one of them carrying something.

"Give her to me," he commanded.

Ilya's arms tightened around his sister, who was leaning away from his grip, reaching out with both arms for the love of her tiny, frail life.

"She hasn't done nothin', Sir," he whispered, fighting to control the squirming, kicking girl. "Hasn't broken nothin', or crapped anywhere that I didn't clean up."

The Mechanic did not bother to repeat himself. Merely thrust out a hand, taking Sissy's arm in a powerful grip. Ilya kissed his baby sister's face, whispering,

"Be good, Sis, okay? One more time, be good, for Bubby."

And then, he let her go. Kane pulled the laughing child up, tossed her into a better grip, and then reached around for the leg that one of his drones had been holding. Somewhat indifferently, he said,

"Hurts like h*ll, every time," and then pushed the metal leg's socket against Sissy's hip. She stiffened and gasped, as circuitry sawed its way from the leg to her flesh, seeking attachment.

"Look at me!" he snapped, focusing on her tear-filled blue eyes. "Be strong, dammit! It's only pain! You get over it!"

Ilya was shifting anxiously from one foot to the other, hands clenched to fists, trying hard not to cry. His hero knew what he was doing; would never hurt Sissy for no reason. He, too, looked at Kane, drawing strength from the most powerful person he knew. Sissy didn't cry, only whimpered and clutched at the Mechanic's muscular arm, staring up into fierce amber eyes.

Years later, in court, she was asked about the incident. About Kane. But all she would say was,

"He made me strong. He made _both_ of us strong. Take this d*mn collar off, and I'll prove it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, outside of the mall-_

The night had turned to screams, fire and chaos, with mechs diving at anything metal; be it car, wires or jewelry. Nobody knew what was happening, or where they should run, for the insect-drones seemed to be everywhere. For the most part, they did not attack people, but were not above ripping a hand or a throat out, to get at a ring or a necklace. Gold and silver, after all, made the best wiring.

After one very close call with a hornet drone, Sherna hurled her cellphone into the river and pushed the children into a floodwater culvert. Spent much of the night crouched in front of the opening with her weapon; clutched from behind by shaky small hands.

Low Town was ablaze, the chaos spreading now, into Jakarta. Flames shot upward in bright, twisting spires, roaring as they fed on collapsing roofs and torn fuel tanks. Explosions shook the island. Worse than useless, the GDF emergency craft which responded were shredded in midair for use in the nest, their pilots and crew plunging to the ground, far below. Most had parachutes. Some did not. Few survived the night.

Without power, pretty much all of the island's communications were down, but somebody, somewhere managed to get out a brief, choked-off message: _Help us._

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, in the cockpit-_

John glided up to the pilot's seat, bringing himself to a stop with one hand against its cold metal surface. Alan looked around at him, eyes wide and uncertain.

"Hey, Bro," he said. "Thought you should have a look at this. I'm not the one who calls situations, but, um…"

The astronaut craned around to stare past his brother's left shoulder. He was still thinking of O'Bannon, but the mess on Alan's viewscreen blew _that_ right out of his head, again.

"Sh*t."

"I know, _right?_ Looks like the whole place is under attack, or something… like one of those ancient battle vids. Plus, somebody called us, for help!"

By this time, Gordon had zipped in, as well; looking as freshly-scrubbed as possible, given that "no scented cleansers" rule.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" he enquired, this being his morning, John's late afternoon, and Alan's bedtime.

"Indonesia," John told him, using his wrist comm to conjure up Scott, who did not look happy to see him. (Took over twenty minutes to make contact, because they were that far away.)

"Not sure what you guys are working on, over there," said John, to his sullen older brother, "But what the h*ll's going on, in Jakarta?"

"Jakarta?" Scott was squinting one eye, like he always did, when trying to conceal a headache.

"Yeah. Got a weather-sat image here, that looks like a d*mn war zone."

"Plus, a distress call!" chimed Alan, giving Scott a friendly wave. For some reason, the cheery, salute-like gesture didn't go over well, and Scott glared daggers at the poor kid.

"Right. Thanks. Get back to you, on that one. Kind of busy, over here." _Unlike you guys, just floating around,_ he didn't say aloud, but managed to imply.

"Okay," said John, after another long, twenty-minute delay. "I'll just leave it to you, and go back to my knitting."

Behind him, Gordon snorted with laughter.

"Yeah… I might rearrange my stamp collection, or compose epic verse about long, boring missions where nothing much happens. If I can stay awake, that is."

Alan giggled, converting the sound at the last second to a manlier chuckle.

"And I've got a few new yoga poses to try out! Ever do 'downward dog' in zero-G, Scott? It's _lit!"_

He and Gordon tumbled off through the air, laughing their asses off and bouncing like pinballs. John shook his red head, thinking: _kids._ Then he punched 'transmit', again, and said,

"Joking aside, Scott, it looks pretty bad, over there. Not sure what IR can do… but maybe send someone out for a look-see. We'll reach Saturn in just a few days, at this rate… hopefully score ourselves a pair of live, dumbass explorers… and then head back home. Fly safe, Scott. Thunderbird 3, out."

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Tracy Island, at dawn-_

Not only awake again, but feeling pretty d*mn pumped, Virgil Tracy followed Max and Captain Kraft through the vast, echoing hangar and back to the airstrip. Emma was in uniform, or he would have held her hand.

She and Max had been trying to lower his expectations; talking about "setbacks" and "additional hull damage". Didn't matter. The big cargo pilot was too fully healed… too optimistic… to really believe all that. Anyway, Brains had been hard at work all night, putting in a few "finishing touches", and the little origami Bird had helped lift his hopes and his spirits stratospherically high. Seriously, on a day like this, what could go wrong?

Kraft turned to face Virgil, as the hangar door ground slowly open. She was looking at his handsome face, not Thunderbird 2, when morning light, birdsong and jungle smells poured in through the huge, gaping doorway.

He stared. His brown eyes grew wide. Then, Virgil smiled.

"Wow," he breathed, softly. "That's… you did it!"

Being a young man prone to physical action, he bellowed for sheer joy, then lifted Emma straight off her feet and over his head, uniform, or no. Actually tossed and caught her, too, in full sight of the work crew, who'd been gathered outside on the tarmac.

She landed in his embrace, caught the briefest glimpse of a _completely repaired, better-than-new_ Thunderbird 2… and a hunched, furtive-seeming Hackenbacker. Then, she was swept into a passionate, joyful, hungry kiss by the man who was… really embarrassing the h*ll out of her, right now.

Kraft heard laughter, applause, and a few wolf-whistles. Would have broken free and shouted them down, but… tough to concentrate or stay angry, pressed up against hard muscle, while having the breath and protest kissed right out of her. Everything in her wanted to respond. Only, she couldn't. Not here.

A few quick taps to his back convinced him to let her go, and… though she was tingling all over, with her blondish hair halfway out of its bun, and her jacket askew… Kraft turned to her grinning crew and snapped,

"What are you standing around for? Grab a d*mn cloth, and get to polishing! That Godd*m Bird better shine! Every inch! _Move!_ Marines, too! Shift your ass, Rodriguez!"

Virgil's arms went around her, again, from behind. Kissing the top of her head, he whispered,

"Thanks, Angel. Don't know how you did it, but thank you for saving my _other_ best girl."

…Except that she hadn't. Not at all. Kraft accepted the hug and managed to smile, trying not to think about all of those nanostructures, created from quantum nothingness, and just as quickly dissolved. Maybe with Virgil aboard.

All she could do was feign gladness as he took her hand and led her up through the boarding ramp, into his shining new Bird.


	29. Chapter 29

Hi, there! My sincerest thanks and hugs to Bow Echo, Whirl Girl and Akimakel, plus Tikatu, for helping me out with their awesome reviews.

 **2** **9**

 _Tracy Island, inside the cockpit of Thunderbird 2-_

A girl could only put up so much of a fuss. Pressed between the steel bulkhead and Virgil, Emma quickly responded to kisses that started out tender and soon became urgent. Pulling his tee-shirt out of his waistband, she ran both hands up along his flat abdomen and across the hard muscles of his broad back. With a low moan, he moved against her; pushing and rubbing, shifting his kisses from her mouth, to chin, to neck and downward to…

 _Breeeep!_ His wrist comm went off, only just giving them time to leap apart and calm down, before Scott's image appeared, looking extremely annoyed. At that moment, Virgil would have cheerfully shot him. Getting himself under control, the big pilot said,

"Hey, Scott. What's up?"

His brother winced, evidently fighting another migraine. Any other time, Virgil would have sympathized.

"Some kind of fire-storm in Jakarta. Need you out there with, uh… who've we got left that'll be any good in a crisis?"

Putting himself back in a work frame of mind, Virgil stuffed his tee-shirt into his pants, and considered.

"Well, there's… No, he's helping with defense. Or, what about…? No, up there with _you_. Grandma's busy at comm… Uh, Max is about it, Scott."

His brother's transmitted image nodded, then winced again, as though deeply regretting the motion.

"Right. Clear it with Brains, first, and then get Max fitted out with some extra cutting tools and foam nozzles. Get him rescue-ready. Don't know exactly what you'll need, out there, but coffee probably isn't too high on the list. I'll join you just as soon as…"

"He pays his ticket!" someone snickered, off camera. Sounded like Kayo. Interested, Virgil started to comment, until he noticed Scott's expression, and the pulsing veins at both temples. Looked like some firehose blood pressure, right there. Maybe discretion was the better part of valor, today. At least, if he wanted his brother not to erupt like the Deccan Flats.

"Okay, Scott. I'll get Max kitted out, and then we'll head over. See you in the sky."

Their field commander grunted by way of response, then cut the transmission. Virgil sighed, looked over at Emma, who by now was back in officer mode, and said,

"Later?"

The captain reached around and slapped his tight rear, saying,

"You better believe it, Mister… and I expect extra effort, to make up for delay. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some… _strategy_ to discuss with Dr. Hackenbacker."

Virgil grinned at her, exactly like an overgrown boy who'd just scored a big touchdown. Taking her left, ring hand, he kissed and squeezed it.

"Keep 'em safe over here, Angel. I'll see you when I get back."

Her professional demeanor faltered briefly, as Emma lunged forward to tackle and hug him.

"In one piece, Taz…" she whispered fiercely. "No more dings, scratches or breaks, or I'm docking your pay."

"Wait… I get paid for this? _Bonus!"_ he laughed, scooping his woman up for one last lingering kiss. Then, it was time to move on, with the promise of much more to come.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, inside the hive ship-_

At last, she was ready to go. The sleek new craft he'd built to replace his first, destroyed by the Tracys, was ready to fly. Better yet, she'd been constructed with bits of Thunderbird 2, and most of Jakarta, which burnt like a torch all around her.

Though most of the ship was hollow, its vast interior was crisscrossed by thin, arching spars. These formed a 3D web leading to storage spaces and damper cells, soon to contain vital prisoners. There was a bridge of sorts, too; the one place aboard, not crowded with mechs. Always, in the past, he'd stood there alone, flying the vessel and controlling his drones through cybernetic amplifiers. This time, though, two others had crept inside. Kane was aware of their presence; he just didn't think that they'd matter.

So, the Mechanic summoned his army, pulling them back from their raids on the burning city. He used gestures to do it, reaching out, clutching and drawing, because action focused will. He did not sit down, but stood upon a low pedestal before a long bank of windows, linked to his mechs via darknet and comm.

At his gesture, the ship's impellers cut on, lifting her clear of the ground and her mare's nest of cables. The abandoned mall shuddered and rumbled, then began to crack. Kane made a lifting motion with both hands, causing the hive ship to burst through the mall's roof like a broaching whale. Glass shattered, and metal beams shrieked. Concrete snapped and rumbled. Great clouds of dust and debris rolled away on all sides, as the hive ship rose like a parasitic wasp; new-born from the corpse of its host.

Linked this way, Kane could feel every inch of his ship. Felt the air streaming along the hull. Felt engines thrumming to life. Felt weapons systems firing up. The mistakes that had doomed his last vessel were accounted for and corrected, in this one. He would not again fall to the Tracys.

As the hive ship rose through dust and smoke into damp morning air, Kane hacked the city database to locate fuel depots. He required an undamaged facility, accessible from above, because nuclear power might enable impellers and avionics, but rockets demanded fuel. Fortunately, his cyber-link goggles made Jakarta completely transparent. Everything was open; from maps and the city budget, to council voting records. Anything he wanted, was his.

Took him less than a minute to find what he needed; maybe five minutes more to reach it, flying his ship to the city's north depot with gesture and thought. Drones hummed and buzzed all around the departing vessel in huge, streaming clouds. They provided cover from those weak GDF "peace guns", and generated a much larger radar image, making the hive ship seem three times as big. All of this made him much harder to target, especially when moving. He was going to have to remain still for a while, though; at least long enough to fill his fuel tanks. He'd have to be quick, or face interference from the GDF, his own kind, or International Rescue.

Leaning forward in his glowing cable harness, the Mechanic grunted, and made a sharp, downward thrusting motion with both hands. The engines rumbled. Control surfaces altered with a shrill, icepick whine, as the hive ship dove for the defenceless underground storage tank.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, not quite simultaneously-_

The pilot, after giving his report, was supposed to give up his seat to a fresh, rested newcomer, and move over… Except that, A: with only three pilots, no one was all that rested, and B: Gordon was inexperienced, still, at spaceflight. In a place like this one, anyhow. They weren't just approaching Saturn, they were almost there; near enough to see layers and bands in that smooth, butterscotch surface. To see scattered white clouds racing above the main atmosphere, and watch lightning forking and branching through those swirling tan storm clouds. The rings shone bright as quicksilver in reflected sunlight, casting blue-dark shadows onto the planet, below. Peering closely enough, you could make out the individual bits of rock and ice comprising the nearest ring. Gravity had begun reasserting itself, too… though not very powerfully.

Slowly, his butt became reacquainted with the seat, and those straps ceased corralling his drift, and just held him steady. Noticeable, compared to the zero-G of interplanetary space, but still quite gentle; like Thunderbird 5's whirling ring, at its lowest setting.

Interesting stuff. John was tired, though, and maybe half a step slower than he should have been. Slumped in a sort of daze in the pilot's seat, actually, watching the status lights shimmer. Then, somebody touched his shoulder, jarring him back to reality. Not Kayo, this time, but just as surprising. Lee.

Captain Taylor gave him a little shake and said, gruffly,

"Get on back there, an' get some sleep, Son. Bet ya can't even see straight, much less fly this thing."

"M' fine," John objected, shaking his head like a stubborn child.

Gordon had turned, as well. He scowled to see his escaped heart patient hovering there beside them.

"Uncle Lee, what're you doing out of medical?!" the swimmer demanded.

"My d*mn job," the astronaut replied firmly, blue-grey eyes stern in his seamed, craggy face. "We started this mission t'gether, an' I aim ta finish up th' same way. Now, _get,_ Jase. Couple hours sleep 'll do you a power o' good, an' won't hurt nuthin', here. Godfrey an' me c'n handle this puppy, till we reach Titan. Then, we'll call ya both up. Clear?"

But again, John shook his head, no.

"Got work to do, Sir. All I need's an alertness tab, and another cup of coffee. Be fine."

Gordon opened his mouth to agree. Then, he really _looked_ at John; saw near total exhaustion, and approaching collapse.

"Umm… okay. Maybe he's right, Bro," the swimmer allowed. "You've been pulling double shifts for awhile, now, and that's not safe. Go get some rest. Uncle Lee 'll keep me from pressing the big, red button, or taking any joyrides to Pluto. Call you back up, just as soon as Titan's around the limb, and we make contact with Buddy and Ellie. Promise."

"Course I'm right," Lee grumbled, as John at last began unstrapping, to rise from the chair. Took more of a push to get up.

"Spence put me in charge f'r a reason, an' not just because I'm th' only one on this bucket c'n grow some d*mn facial hair! Now, scoot, Jason! Lie down, afore ya fall down."

Stung, Gordon cried,

"Hey! I could grow a mustache, if I wanted to!"

"What? With that sorry-ass peach-fuzz? Don't need a razor ta take _that_ off, just a little soap n' water. Now, shut up, an' give over control. In the sea, y'd be at the helm all day, an' all I'd do is take notes. _Here,_ y'r a d*mn rookie. Get ta steppin', Godfrey. Switch helm control."

"Yes, Sir," Gordon sighed, tapping his panel to "off". Thing was, Uncle Lee was a genuine force of nature; the closest thing they'd had to a father for six whole years. You didn't argue with Captain Taylor. Mostly because, once _he_ got through with you, Grandma 'd start in, and your lit-up, raggedly ass would be lucky to make it up to your room with no supper. None of them was in a position to stand up to the older man. They'd been brought up to be very respectful.

Meanwhile, only just not colliding with bulkheads, John found an out-of-the way spot, attached his harness, and immediately went to sleep. The sort of deep, velvet-black slide which allowed Eos to recommence upgrades. In less than a day, they'd reach Titan.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, en route to Indonesia-_

A relative hop, skip and a jump from base, the big island of Java was familiar enough that Virgil didn't have to concentrate much, on the flight over. Instead, he put his Bird through her paces, testing out her systems and talking to Max, who didn't exactly occupy the copilot's seat, so much as envelope it. He'd just clamped himself around the thing, and then extruded a link arm to interface with the cargo-lifter's onboard computer. Communicated chiefly through Morse code, inflecting his comments by shifting the pitch and speed of his beeps, and their background warbles. Virgil understood him well enough by now, that he interpreted Max's comments as straightforward conversation.

Brains had embraced Max fondly before allowing him onto Thunderbird 2, whispering,

"T- Take care of yourself, M- Max… and, ah… and Virgil, t- too, of course."

Then, he'd been hauled off by Kraft, who'd slapped the engineer on his back, _hard,_ before seizing the back of his neck in an iron grip and saying,

"Hey there, Buddy! It's you and _me_ , on defense. Working together. _Communicating._ This is going to be great!"

The pilot, himself, was like a kid at Christmas; overjoyed by the improved speed, power and range of his girl, and he had to fight to keep that excitement out of his voice.

"Island Base, from Thunderbird 2. Within sight of the eastern islands, now. Will have eyes on our target in… holy _sh*t!_ I mean, _crap_ … sorry, Grandma. There's a column of smoke pouring up, like I haven't seen since our last volcano rescue. Any reports of seismic activity?"

Grandma Tracy's image shook her head.

"'Fraid not, Teddy. Ring of fire's quiet, today," she responded. "Whatever's causin' them fires ain't natural… an' that means y'd best slip in easy an' low. Leastways, till we know what we're dealin' with, here."

Virgil grunted, pushing the steering yoke down, to drop some altitude. The rising sun was behind him, painting the ocean with sparkling light. Indonesia lay dead ahead like a string of black pearls, one of them blazing.

"Can't fight fires and hide at the same time, Grandma. Didn't take this job 'cause I like to play it safe. You know that."

Java had reputedly once been a green and beautiful place. Now, it was almost entirely covered with buildings (most in poor repair) and with flood control shielding. Power outage meant that the pumps had stopped working, except for a few on backup generators. If _those_ went out, most of the city would flood. Thick, dark smoke poured from seemingly everywhere, obscuring Virgil's view. Not good.

"Max," he said, "get me an infrared scan. Let's pinpoint the worst of those fires, and start putting them out. Looks like we're gonna need backup, too. I don't think we can… Oh, God. Oh, _no…"_

Beside him, Max began beeping a shrill, harsh alarm. Hs infrared scanners painted a target, and expanded its image. Virgil's brown eyes grew wide, and then narrowed sharply, as rage battled concern on his handsome face. A hive ship. Big one. In the act of draining Jakarta's north fuel depot. Not taking his eyes off the glowing red image, Virgil mashed the comm switch again. In a calm, dry voice, he said,

"The Mechanic. He's here. Got himself a new ride, and he's tanking it up. Figure we've got maybe one chance to stop his ass, and that's if we act, right the h*ll _now._ Scott, where are you?!"

His brother replied, sounding whiplash tense.

"Virgil, do not engage. Leave him to the GDF, and put out those fires. We're not law enforcement, and you can't just dive in there, guns blazing! You don't have any guns!"

"Got a laser," Virgil grunted, reaching for the comm switch. "And putting out fires won't solve the problem."

"Virgil, _stand down!_ That's an order! You hear me? Virgil!"

Only, he got no reply.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, in a miasma of smoke, ash and humidity-_

His scouts reported the approach of Thunderbird 2, coming in fast. Cursing, Kane tried switching his view to their multiple, fast-moving eyes, using his goggles' cyber-link ability. But, instead of shifting his view to theirs, the goggles cut their interface to the Mechanic's brain. He went suddenly, totally blind. Even switching views didn't help. Would have torn the d*mn things off, only that would have knocked him unconscious for a critical five to ten minutes.

Instead, the Mechanic ordered his drones to attack anything in the air other than the hive ship, emptying her cavernous hold until he could fix a patch or find a workaround. Brains had betrayed him. That scheming little pencil-neck number-jockey had sold him out to the Tracys. Maybe put in a tracking device, too. Well, one thing at a time. Blind or not, he'd…

Something touched the Mechanic's hand. Tiny fingers. Black, empty blindness vanished, and all at once, he could see again. Only, the view was all wrong. He was seeing from too low to the deck, looking at his own massive, clenched fist; seeing an outstretched small hand, reaching high up to touch his scarred knuckles.

The girl, he realized suddenly. Through her eyes, he could bypass the doctored goggles. Watching himself grope, Kane reached down, seized the girl and swung her up onto his own broad shoulders. Better.

The boy had appeared as well, racing over to man the hive ship's plasma gun.

"We can help, sir," he promised stoutly. "We're ready to fight."


	30. Chapter 30

Long, because written in bits and pieces, in many strange locations and varying moods. Thank you, Bow Echo, Whirl Girl, Akimakel and "Guest on my device", for your reviews. Steph, your kinds words and messages have been more helpful than I can express.

 **30**

 _Morning, in the smoky air above Jakarta-_

Because it was the right thing to do, Virgil broadcast a warning message: _"Attention, in the hive ship. Cease activity, land your aircraft ,and prepare to be boarded by GDF forces!"_

He didn't slow down, though, and the message only got there first, because it was traveling at the speed of light, and he wasn't. Max beeped and chirped nervously, but triggered everything Thunderbird 2 had in the way of defenses; holding off swarms of attacking drones. Meanwhile, Virgil readied his Bird's cutting laser, and throttled up. Wind screamed around the cargo-lifter's hull. Her engines howled and thundered, their noise shattering windows for miles around.

In the hive ship, Kane gave the boy a brief tutorial, expecting complete retention.

"Line up the crosshairs, then pull the trigger. Don't look straight at the plasma bolt, or you won't be looking again at anything, ever. Aim for the cockpit or engines, and keep shifting your target. Forces their shields to recalibrate, and wastes energy. Lay down constant fire to keep them busy, while I get close."

"Yes, Sir," Ilya replied. The big gun mount had no seat, but the small pedestal before it dampened inertia, meaning that he wasn't shaken or slammed around by the ship's battle movements. At a gesture from Kane, the gun's barrel and trigger mechanism scanned him, briefly, then adjusted to fit his small size. In its way, the whole ship was alive, and constantly changing around them.

His sister was perched on the Mechanic's broad, tattooed shoulders, gleefully kicking both her flesh and her metal legs. Safer there, than with _him_ , the boy decided… and, best of all, capable. Strong. Taking the risk of looking stupid, he blew Sissy a kiss which she returned; crowing with laughter.

He'd never shot a big gun, before. Certainly not from a moving ship, at an oncoming target, but Ilya didn't let that bother him. He had a kid's confidence in himself and in the Mechanic. He would succeed because his hero expected nothing less, and because the swelling green target wasn't even _trying_ to dodge. Only problem was avoiding the mechs which hurtled between them, striking the Bird. Friends, in a way… but maybe drones could be sacrificed, so long as he nailed the main target?

Each small twitch to the handles, each nervous pull on the trigger, produced great big motion from the gun. Burst after sun-like burst whooshed from the hive ship, frying mechs and spattering against the cargo-lifter's force shield. Many shots went wild, at first, but Ilya got better, fast. Then, he got dangerous.

Aboard Thunderbird 2, Virgil Tracy diverted all the power he could, from nonessentials to shields.

"Max," he said, "get the laser ready. Full charge. We'll slice off those engines, one at a time."

The robot beeped affirmatively, lens covers squinting over two of his multiple eyes. Flaring plasma bursts struck repeatedly; shaking the Bird, but not breaking through. Seeing what the Mechanic had done to Jakarta, Virgil was too angry for caution. Did not divert course or attempt to dodge, trusting that his shields would hold until he was close enough to strike back.

Still being hammered by acceleration and plasma bolts, shields down to thirty percent, the pilot waited until collision was imminent before banking sharply to starboard.

"Now, Max!" he ordered, hanging sideways in his seat straps.

The robot beeped, and fired. Outlined and partly defused by dense smoke, a bright crimson beam shot from the Bird's cutting laser. Sliced across the hive ship's port engine mount… or would have done, had a swarm of drones not come between Virgil Tracy and his target. Beside him, the comm beeped and flashed, but the pilot refused to pick up.

"Coming around for a second pass," he grunted, hauling hard at steering yoke and throttle. "Let's try another angle."

But the segmented hive ship wasn't constructed like a regular aircraft. It wasn't rigid. Instead of staying there to be hit, it poured itself downward like a slinky spring toy, directly at hundreds of fleeing civilians. Cursing, Virgil shouted,

"Off, Max! Turn off the d*mn laser, before we hit someone!"

The Mechanic had no such compunction, firing straight through a crumbling building to bludgeon Thunderbird 2 with multiple plasma bolts. Shields were down to fifteen percent. Hauling back on the yoke, Virgil climbed, trying to move the fight away from the burning city.

"Okay, so he's good, and he's ruthless," Virgil muttered. "I'm better. Let's see how he handles _this."_

Some fancy rocket work both dipped his Bird, and yawed her around, as Virgil fired a long stream of stabilizing foam at the hive ship's cockpit windows. It struck and solidified, cementing itself to the hull and three view ports. Ought to have blinded him, but somehow, the Mechanic fought on, blasting shot after sun-like shot. The last one knocked out the Bird's shields.

Aboard the hive ship, Kane snapped,

"Switch to potential, Boy. Fire two broadside shots, fore and aft, at my mark. Won't see anything, at first. Doesn't mean you didn't hit."

"Yes, Sir," the boy replied, working out how to switch settings (there were only two). Meanwhile, still seeing through the little girl's eyes, Kane gestured his ship into a sort of corkscrewing climb. Thunderbird 2's shields were down. An easy mark. Calling back his drones, the Mechanic drew alongside and grunted,

" _Now._ Fire as we pass."

Breathing hard, sweating, Ilya bit his lip, aimed and pulled the trigger, twice. Saw nothing but twin, slender sparkles, until the cyborg broadcast a signal, converting potential to actual substance. Neutronium steel suddenly formed, as hard and as real as the Bird's fuselage. Now, where there had been nothing but quantum glitter, twin, solid spars harpooned Thunderbird 2 like a whale, locking her down.

"Good shot," Kane admitted. Then, vaulting from his pedestal, "Time to go catch us a hero. Keep her straight and level, Boy. The ship and drones will obey."

As their momenta had not been exactly equal, the two aircraft swung around through the air in a flat death-spiral, locked tightly together. 'Surprised' did not begin to express Virgil's mental state. Caught pants down, just getting up from the bushes, was more like it.

"What the h*ll…?!" he mumbled, as squares of dim, reddish sunlight slid around and around the bulkhead and floors. Flung about in his seat straps, Virgil could see the Mechanic, who'd emerged from his ship and was racing toward them along one of those newly-formed spars.

"Okay… _think_ , tough guy! That stuff didn't just pop out of nothing… has to be quantum nano-crap, like Brains uses. Came out of potential, can go right back. Max! Find the disruption signal, fast!"

The robot beeped his version of, _"on it, Virge",_ and then began crunching numbers. Meanwhile, the muscular pilot ran for the hold, and his powered exo-suit; momentarily forgetting the Mechanic's control over all things robotic or metal.

"Come and get it, Tin Man," he snarled, climbing in, and pushing the suit to full power. Then he lumbered back up to the cockpit. "I'm ready!"

Outside, Kane rushed along the spar, matching speed and orientation with Thunderbird 2. The sun shot around and around in dizzying circles, as did the landscape, below. Wind kept switching quarters, while the girl on his shoulders laughed with delight. Beside her vision, some of the child's mood had leaked through to him. Kane did his best to ignore how much fun all this was. No time for that sh*t. He had big game to bring down, and a Bird to snare.

Then, quite literally, the bottom dropped out. The spar that he'd been running along simply blinked right out of existence. Kane plunged like a cybernetic rock. Worse yet, he became separated from the girl. Was flailing, cursing blind again, for maybe a second. Then, he got a quick flash… another… and the view held steady. Saw himself, spinning and receding. Saw two small arms reaching hopefully upward.

Hard to orient himself, that way, but the Mechanic cut on his jetpack and dove, guiding himself by the girl's view of him. Got closer, through pummeling wind… drifted right… back in line… saw his own big hand shoot out and snatch… miss… snatch again, this time catching hold of a skinny small arm. Got a brief glimpse of his own chest plate and scowling face, before slinging her back up on his shoulders.

"Hang on," he growled, against smoky wild updrafts and engine noise. "Or, next time, I let you fall!"

Only, she didn't believe that. Maybe, neither did he.

Meanwhile, back in Thunderbird 2, Virgil high-fived Max.

"You did it!" he shouted. "We're free!"

Then, leaning forward to stare at the view screen and scan for damage, he asked,

"How small and how far can we project a forcefield, Max? Have we got enough power left to make and tow some kind of bubble? Like a portable jail cell?"

Max beeped and warbled away, expressing a cautious 'maybe'. The pilot nodded, stabilizing his Bird's flight.

"Good, 'cause I'm thinking… wait… why's he still falling? He can _fly."_

Virgil's jaw dropped, and his dark eyebrows flew upward. Not one, but _two_ figures were plummeting hard for the fiery ground; one very small.

"Is that… a kid? What's he doing?!"

Then, Scott's tense voice, his worried face, came over the comm.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 1. Hang on, Virgil, we're on our way, with GDF air-cover and ground troops!"

The big, handsome pilot slapped his comm switch.

"Scott! Back off! He's got a hostage… looks like a little girl… Scan shows another one, back in his ship!"

"You okay?" Scott demanded. Their sister was there, too, looking very intense; her green eyes narrowed to cat-like slits.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Virgil grunted. "Shaken up… feeling _stupid,_ absolutely. Not hurt, though. Max, either."

"Good." Scott's image nodded. "We'll discuss the particulars, later. Right now, disengage and start putting out fires. People could've been dying down there, while you were off having a pissing contest with the Mechanic. He's a Defense Force problem, Virgil. _They're_ ours. I'll report the hostages to Dad. You get to work."

The worst part… the absolute h*ll of it was… Scott was correct. He'd endangered civilians by picking a needless fight.

"Understood," Virgil mumbled, watching as the Mechanic jetpacked up to his ship with a captured and probably terrified little girl. One he knew the GDF would be helpless to save. "We'll find you, Sweetheart," he promised her, as the refueled hive ship roared to life and then accelerated away. "We'll track his ass down, and rescue the both of you. I _promise."_

XXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, at not quite the same time-_

John awoke suddenly, feeling like he'd slept for a week and drunk gallons of coffee. Good. No, better than that. Double-plus perfect. Didn't question his good fortune, figuring that Eos had cleaned house, again; shifted his electrolyte balance, or something. More glowing circuitry on his suit, though. That was interesting.

"Thanks, Sweetie," he said, though he wasn't wearing his helmet, and couldn't hear her reply. Then his wrist comm pinged, calling him up to the cockpit. Titan, at last.

Almost laughed when he saw where he'd harnessed himself up for sleep; the galley, by their half-empty food supply lockers. Must've been more tired than he'd thought. Oh, well. Anyone in dire need of a midnight snack could just have shoved him aside. He wouldn't even have felt it.

Got himself freed of the bulkhead, washed up and sorted, before heading up front. Alan was already there, yawning and stretching mightily.

"Hey, Bro!" the boy said to him, offering a drowsy fist bump. "You sleep okay?"

John nodded, careful to return the bump gesture without sending both of them flying across the cabin.

"I'm awake," he told Lee and Gordon, who'd turned in their seats to look over. "Put it bluntly: are we there, yet?"

Captain Taylor grinned at him, then hooked a thumb over his own broad shoulder.

"Looks like it, Jase… And I told ya t' go before we left the house."

John looked. Then, he stared.

Saturn took up most of the view; swirling and streaming with icy tan gases pouring along like currents, at different speeds and directions. Dark moon and ring shadows cut across her unstable surface, changing size and shape as the atmosphere roiled beneath. Then he saw Titan, just now clearing the gas giant's limb.

Smoggy and blotched-looking, the yellow-brown moon was almost as big as a planet, itself. Looked like a caramel candy someone'd dropped in the dirt, by mistake. Tapping his earpiece, John allowed up-to-date information on Titan to flood his brain for an instant; getting to speed on local gravity (less than Earth's moon) and weather conditions (windy, -290 degrees F). Decided that they wouldn't have any problems. After Jupiter, practically a d*mn vacation spot.

Gordon had been calling to the Pendergasts, using every frequency the Bird could manage. No answer. Said Captain Taylor, a touch impatiently,

"Never mind that, Godfrey. We already know their main power n' comm's busted. Scan f'r wreckage."

John drew himself closer to the swimmer's seat with one hand; not quite so float-y, in Saturn's mild gravity well. Alan soared over to join him, still gritty-eyed and rib-scratching. Not in the mood for physical contact, John scooted over, saying,

"Have to lock onto metals, Gordon. Titan's metal-poor, and cold enough to screw with our infrared scans. Wind may have buried most visual traces, by this time, so you can't just _look."_

"Yeah… okay. Thanks, guys," the swimmer whispered. He seemed upset. Worried, maybe. "I don't see any… _wait_. Got something! Looks like a small debris field, buried in methane and water ice… plus, some kind of undamaged structure… escape pod! It's an escape pod, with two really weak bio-signs! We got 'em, guys! Let's go!"

"Hold on! Cool y'r jets, Godfrey (Goddam terrible name, can't even shorten it, decent-like… don't know what the h*ll y'r daddy was thinkin'). Ya don't go blastin' in without an exit plan. Now, who's goin', an' what's th' strategy?"

All three boys stared at Captain Taylor, genuinely surprised.

"What?!" he grumped. "I'm a d*mn space pilot, not a rescue puke. I got you boys out here. Haulin' them explorers back ta safety's _your_ job. Now, what's th' plan?"

After a moment, John ventured,

"I've got the exopod. We can use that to reach the surface, once we're in orbit around Titan."

Lee grunted, shaking his head.

"Nuh-uh, Jase. Not unless ya want ta spend another week here, just bleedin' momentum. At th' speed we're movin', droppin' inta orbit round Titan's dang near impossible. C'mon, Son… you _know_ that."

Yeah. He knew a lot of things; chief among them that he wanted this over with. Okay…

"Drop us off as we shoot past, then. Me and… and Gordon." (Because his brother looked like he'd tear his own way out through the hull, if he wasn't allowed on the mission). "You swing around Saturn a few times, to lose some of this excess speed. We'll counter-orbit Titan, until we can enter the atmosphere without breaking up. On the ground…? I dunno. Have to make it up as we go along, but medical gear and cutting tools might be handy. Keep Alan up here, in reserve. If he needs to come down, he's got the rocket board… only I don't know how well that thing functions, in an atmosphere as thick as Titan's."

Alan wrinkled his short, freckled nose.

"Not too good, would be my guess, Bro. It's not meant to be aerodynamic, or anything. I'd have to frickin' _crawl_ , or get swept right off."

Gordon rolled his eyes.

 _"Dude._ It's like a surfboard, right? Just hang on, and duck-dive. Have I gotta think for you, _all_ the time? Now, come on! They're waiting, down there! Let's _go!"_

They had to hurry, or miss their shot at the moon, and wait for the next go-round. In the aft airlock, John got into his helmet and exopod. He was about as safety conscious as ever, which was to say: sort of. Gordon, on the other hand, just wanted out, right the h*ll _now_. Was more serious than usual, too. Not fidgeting, or cracking incomprehensible jokes. Focused.

"John," said Eos, over his helmet comm. "In most universes sampled, you are too late, and the explorers have already perished."

"You mean, a few of me actually _made it_ this far? I'm impressed. Besides, we didn't come out all this way just to get bounced at the door. Have a little faith, Eos."

She was getting better at tactile sensation. John would have sworn that a female was standing pressed close behind him, arms tightly wrapped around his chest.

"I have logic, quantum insight, and concern, John. These will have to stand in for 'faith'. I shall not say, 'be careful', because you never are. I shall simply prevent accidents and curb your worst excesses, as always."

Ouch. John was saved from having to respond by a sudden call from the cockpit. Captain Taylor, saying,

"You boys ready, in there?"

John glanced over at Gordon, who gave him a brief thumbs-up.

"Yes, Sir," the astronaut responded. "Say when, and I'll pop the hatch."

Airlock was sort of crowded with two people, anyhow. Might as well make tracks, as Granddad would put it.

"Copy that, Jase. Y'r gonna have an ass-load of velocity, relative t' y'r landin' site, so take y'r d*mn time, an' counter-orbit awhile. Otherwise, y'll hit th' ground in pieces."

"Yes, Sir. Will do." There was no sense of great speed; nor, when Lee gave the signal, and John popped the hatch, any wind rush, or noise. Just Titan, close enough to lob a stone at… if he'd had one. Checking to be certain that Gordon was still tethered up, John shot out of the airlock, engaged his exopod's thrusters, and cut toward Titan; moving counter to the big, frigid moon's rotation.

"They'll be alright," Gordon was saying. "Just sleeping, or something, to conserve air and food. You've seen that a lot, right, John?"

Actually, _no…_ but he had a feeling that his brother wanted comfort, not facts. Sh*t. He sucked at comfort.

"Um… yeah. People could save a lot of energy, that way. In theory, or something."

Fortunately, Gordon wasn't being picky.

"I knew it," he said. "Buddy's got it all worked out. I mean, he survived the elusive cave troll, right? So, Titan's, like, _nothing."_

John grunted, pulling away from Thunderbird 3 at a very slight angle. The big, crimson rocket seemed literally to lunge away from them, like a starship making its jump. One second, right there beside them. The next, nothing but engine fire and blurred red lightning. They were on their own, hanging in space between gas giant and on-coming moon.

Saturn took up most of the 'sky' to his right, her rings looking like big, swirling rock clouds. Grim, frozen Titan hung off to their left, its rotation and orbit dragging at the approaching brothers, gradually slowing them down.

Sort of hit or miss, slowing enough to drop into orbit, without striking Saturn or Titan. John had to burn up a lot of thruster fuel and cut hard around the big moon. Not too fast, though, or they'd have sailed clean away. Lee and Alan must've been watching, because all at once he heard his brother applaud, while Taylor said,

"There ya go… nice n' easy. Don't overshoot, don't cut in too quick… and stay outta the atmosphere until y'r down ta less than 500 km/ hr. Soup that dense 'll hit ya like a baseball bat, if'n y'r movin' too fast."

"Thanks, Mom," John responded. "Hope you packed me a nice sandwich for lunch, too."

Lee snorted.

"Jase, I ain't seen a sandwich in _weeks_. If I _had_ one, last thing I'd do is give it ta _your_ ingrate ass. Half, mebbe."

"Okay, can we hurry up, please?!" Gordon demanded, actually trying to pull himself up along the tether, hand over hand.

John reversed thrust again, shaving off another fifty kilometers per hour, relative speed.

"Gordon, stand down," he said. "Or I'll reach down your throat, grab your ankles, and jerk you inside out."

"Cool!" Alan cut in. "Can I watch?"

"You're next," John snapped. "Now, shut up, both of you. Trying to concentrate."

That won him nearly thirty minutes of peace to think and maneuver. _Finally,_ their speed versus Titan was down low enough that John and Gordon could risk hitting the atmosphere. From black space, to thin yellow haze, to dense, oily brown clouds, took another ten minutes, because John didn't plunge straight down; he planed in at an angle, dragging Gordon behind like an unhappy para-sailor. Their faceplates were soon coated with yellowish film, their suits steaming in the bitter, sub _-sub-_ zero cold. But, yeah… still alive, so that was something.

"Hang on, back there," he called, as they soared over a landscape of amber dune fields, dark lakes, and wind-sculpted boulders of ice. "Need to bleed off some more velocity before we touch down. Debris site's just over the horizon."

"It's gonna be okay," Gordon repeated stoutly. "Bet they'll feature us in their next episode, even."

"Hey, guys… newsflash!" Alan chirped up, over the comm. "Saturn's back looks just like its front: _boring._ And, just for fun, I added stuff up. Tell Buddy and Ellie they owe us 6.8 million credits, in small, untraceable deposits."

"And pizza," said John. "They owe me a couple of months' worth of pizza. No mushrooms."

Gordon wasn't playing along, though. Just hitched himself a little closer on the tether, as if those few inches would make a d*mn bit of difference to the Pendergasts. But, John didn't say so. Not out loud.

He hit the ground pretty hard, even with all the speed-dumps; first flaring, then retracting the exopod's wings. The ground absorbed most of the shock, being a rigid, crackling crust over relative mush. Like s'mores, almost, except, y'know… methane-flavoured. Less bone-jarring impact, than soggy splat with a rolled-up wet towel. (Which Scott was expert at, and John hated.)

He hit, slid, broke through and got mired in frozen brown ooze. Weighed down by his exopod, John struggled up from one knee. Then Gordon appeared at his side, and helped get him back on top of the "graham cracker crust". Wasn't hard to stand on, once you were out of the mush… but weird because of how normal everything seemed.

Looking around, they saw icy rocks, sand dunes, a pebbly shore and slow-rippled lake beneath cloudy, yellow-brown skies. Only the presence of Saturn, and that dense, soupy air, made the place really alien.

Ignoring the scenery, Gordon whipped out his scanner and turned it on, doing a swift three-sixty to get himself oriented. Then,

"This way," he said, loping off in high, swooping bounds. Gravity was low, but walking forward felt like fighting a constant, high wind. "C'mon, John, we're almost there!"

The debris field would have been hidden, if they hadn't known just where to look, and seen that those faded lumps and small hills were arranged in a blast pattern. The rounded steel pod lay farther away along the lake shore; its texture and gleam entirely different from the surrounding ice and rock. It was canted on one side, three-quarters buried in cobbles and sand.

Gordon bounded right up and hammered on its hull, sending weird booming echoes reverberating through the dense air. John approached more slowly, being heavier in his exopod, but unwilling to leave it behind. Looked like the escape pod's hatch was almost completely buried. That complicated things.

Gordon was just standing there, staring at his scanner, when John caught up.

"Says organic," he whispered numbly, not looking up. "Doesn't say live… and they're not answering. John, I can't... I don't..."

John peered over his brother's bowed head, to look at the tiny blue LCD screen.

"Doesn't say dead, either," he reminded Gordon, who still wouldn't move, or look up. Gently, John placed a gloved hand on his shoulder and gave the swimmer a little shake. Drew him away from the frozen escape pod.

Crouching down, John started to dig, using both gloved hands to scoop icy pebbles and methane slush away from the hatch. He was more than halfway done, when a thought struck.

"Dumbass," he muttered, slapping his own helmet with one blue-gloved hand. Then, much louder, " _Gordon!"_

"Sir! I mean… What's up, John?"

The astronaut got to his feet.

"This is an escape pod. There's no airlock. If we open the hatch, out here…"

Behind the faceplate, Gordon's hazel eyes widened.

"They'll die, if they're not wearing spacesuits! We've gotta get the whole pod up to Thunderbird 3, before we open the hatch!"

Yeah... The question was, _how?_


	31. Chapter 31

As my daughter would say, "Shorty Mc-shorterson". Written on the fly, whilst running errands. Thanks, Bow Echo! =) And, thanks for the cool idea, Whirl Girl!

 **31**

 _Jakarta, out on the ground, in Low Town-_

Officer Sherna Lasangah had found shelter of sorts, in the form of a large flood-control culvert, facing the Ciliwung River's eastern bank. More dirt and garbage than water, now, the river was not in flood, leaving culvert 13 high and dry. Dodging wildly, batting at drones with one arm, and firing her weak little gun with the other, Sherna tossed the four children into a big, cement tunnel. Then, she backed in herself, just as the garbage-strewn, oil-slick watercourse burst into flame.

With fire in front, and deep, slinking darkness behind them, Sherna kept hold of Akash, Jordan and Maryam. Samir, who was quite courageous, picked up a big stick and stood up beside her, all that long night. Drones weren't the only predators roaming the city. Human looters and thieves were out in force, ready to take whatever was left unguarded, or to harm those unable to fight for themselves.

Sherna counted each shot, weighing the need for safety against her vanishing ammo. Toward the end of the night, Maryam and Jordan began picking up rocks to pile at the feet of Sherna and young, determined Samir. Dawn found her with one shot remaining, and still no closer to safety.

At least the river had burnt itself out, and no longer flooded their bolt hole with smoke and fumes. When there was light enough, Lieutenant Lasangah stepped forth again, gesturing the children to silence. Samir, of course, would not let her out there, alone. Having failed one family, he refused to lose another; seeing himself as a man, already. Sherna turned to bid him wait.

Then, with a tremendous, booming **CRRR-ACK** , something roared past overhead. Lasangah looked up and around; saw Thunderbird 2 shoot through the smoldering sky like a meteor, shattering glass and shaking the ground. Bits of metal and plastic swirled like leaves in its wake, which had actual, physical force, almost knocking her flat.

Wide-eyed, Samir pointed upward and north. Sherna followed his finger, and spotted the Mechanic's hive ship, rising from chaos and flame like a demon triumphant. Almost directly overhead, the two began to do battle, slashing at each other with lasers and plasma bolts. A horde of drones swarmed to attack Thunderbird 2, which fought back with some sort of sticky white foam. Bits of the stuff drifted down like fine, gritty ash, making them blink and cough.

"Cover your faces and do not breathe deeply, little ones," she called to the huddled children. "We will move on, now."

It seemed safest to follow the river, for its handy culverts, if nothing else. So, they joined a band of fleeing refugees and hurried along. But the battle overhead had grown fiercer, scoring the buildings and ground with deep, smoking gashes and craters. Twice, they were forced to take shelter from drones and plasma strikes. Once, they were all nearly crushed by a falling stone cornice.

Then the hive ship dove, seemingly straight at them. Thunderbird 2's laser lanced across the ground and through the Ciliwung River, making it boil and steam.

 _"Down!"_ Sherna screamed, throwing herself across as many small bodies as she could. The crimson laser slashed through smoke and dust like the finger of God, cutting off just as it would have burnt Maryam.

"Up, quickly!" the officer told her small brood. "Hold hands, all, and _run!"_

Everyone around them was fleeing in blind panic; some this way, some the other. Officer Lasangah kept to the river, once more carrying little Akash, who had his tear-and-ash-streaked face pressed to her neck, sobbing like a baby.

The hive ship dipped lower, and rolled; so close that it blocked all the sky between buildings, shrieking like a bird of prey. It fired at Thunderbird 2 again and again, tearing apart the old Hotel Royale, which collapsed in an avalanche of mortar and stone. Sherna flung her young charges into another big cement flood tunnel, diving in herself, just as a wall of rubble roared down upon them. The last thing she heard, before losing consciousness, was Samir, screaming,

"Amma! _No!"_

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 1, approaching the island of Java-_

Kayo sat behind Scott in the sleek, silver Bird, drumming her fingers and working things out. Virgil was being a _guy,_ with all that entailed; thinking with his tool and his Y-chromosomes, instead of his brain. Needless to say, Scott was furious… and very much worried. Thought that roaring to the rescue at the head of a GDF cavalry was the way to handle all this. Only, Tanusha had another, better, idea.

She'd reached John, a while back. Why not the Mechanic? Could she touch his mind, and make him back down, or surrender?

As Thunderbird 1 shot past the ocean and into the dense column of smoke hiding Jakarta, Kayo focused her thoughts. Bit by bit, she built up an image of the Mechanic. John had been easy; she'd known and loved him since tiny girlhood. He was as familiar to Kayo as her own reflection. The Mechanic was a complete stranger, other than their encounter on his first hive ship, and then out by the stairwell, in the ashes of Edinburgh.

First, she visualized the man; tall, heavily muscled and tattooed, with a partly-shaven head. Saw his armour, cyber-link goggles and breath mask. His cyborg enhancements and cold, amber stare. Then she recalled his nature; predatory, arrogant and casually ruthless. A young lion, proud of his own strength and power; regarding everything weaker as vermin, or prey. Utterly incapable of change, or of love. That's how she saw him, inside of her head.

Next, as Scott tried again and again to break through to Virgil, Tanusha reached out with her mind. Touching John had been simply following a familiar path, to a receptive loved one. This was different. She had to _find_ the man, first, in a roiling cloud of shrieking, terrified minds. There were many, many people around, more than she could block, or sort through; cursing, praying, dying…

Then, briefly, _contact_ … but not with the Mechanic. With someone else. A very young mind, with already frightening strength. It blocked her probe, and then it attacked. Sort of.

Kayo went reeling back, retreating in haste from a sharp mental slap, and… and stuck-out tongue? Then, her entire frame of reference shifted. She found herself back in the London souvenir shop, or an approximation thereof. Lounging casually against nothing, looking bored and superior, was Nikorr Kyrano. Handsome, green-eyed and dark-haired. Sexy as h*ll, and very powerful.

"Well," he said to her, _"That_ was pathetic."

Kayo dropped to a ready crouch, her eyes narrow and hard.

"Get out of my head!" she snarled.

"Make me," he suggested, half smiling. "If you cannot, then behave as a proper underling, and keep silent. You are welcome, by the way, for saving you." _That_ shifted her focus.

"One of _yours?"_ she asked, recalling the young psion's bratty stubbornness and awful power.

"No," Nikorr shook his head. He was wearing some sort of black bodysuit, she noticed, with crystalline spider-things moving about his muscular chest and left shoulder. "A wild talent, most likely. They _do_ spring up, from time to time, even among Typicals. Might be a touch of Beech in there, though. Feels like it, at any rate."

Kayo straightened up, then, because he did.

"First," she said, "Yeah… okay: thank you. I was about to get my arse handed to me by a toddler, and I admit it. Second, what do you want, Niko? In case you've forgotten, my brothers are fighting the Mechanic, out there, and they need me. Unless… you're helping him? You want me out of the fight?"

Kyrano snorted, coming half a pace nearer. His face had twitched, at her use of the nickname 'Niko', instead of Nikorr.

"Hardly," he scoffed. "That cyborg ape is no ally of mine, no matter _what_ the accord dictates. As your sort would phrase it, he is 'up to something', and his family cannot… or _will_ not… control him."

Kayo's delicate eyebrows shot upward. In this place, actually rising higher than her head, such was the strength of her shock.

"Wait… the Mechanic has a _family?"_

"Of course, he does," said Nikorr. "As do you, Tanusha. You belong _here_ , with us. With me."

And he was, all of a sudden, without moving at all, very near to her. With his right forefinger, Nikorr reached out to touch her chest, over and then into, the girl's heart. She gasped…

…And was back in her seat; once again in the cockpit of Thunderbird 1. Her heart pounded. She felt warm, confused and curiously light. Worse yet, Kayo wanted more. She wanted _him._

The sunlight was reddish-smoky. The wind noise and engine scream beat at her ears. Scott was lecturing Virgil, she half heard. Something about Dad, and hostages. Behind them, the GDF forces began splitting up, some to deal with looters and thieves, others to hunt the Mechanic, already no more than a speck in that sullen red sky.

 _Not_ allied with the Kyranos, though he'd worked for the Hood. Actually, a threat to them, somehow. To her _other_ family. Curiouser and curiouser, Tanusha mused, thinking: _What the h*ll am I supposed to do,_ _now_ _?_

XXXXXXXXX

 _The hive ship, now very far from Jakarta-_

Kane strode back up onto the bridge. Once away from Thunderbird 2, his goggles had resumed function, again. He could see on his own; no brat required. Would have to deal with Brains' betrayal… but later. There were more pressing matters before him, just now. Reaching a hand up, he seized hold of the girl and swung her back down to the deck. She shrieked with laughter and clung to his scarred hand, letting go to arc through the air, land on the deck and roll like a d*mn puppy. The boy ran forward to catch her.

"Sissy," he cried excitedly, "you're okay? You had fun?"

"Sissy fun," she agreed, patting her brother's face. Then, mysteriously, _"Bad_ lady."

Ilya would have made her explain, only the Mechanic, rather than ignoring them, was standing there with his arms folded on his armoured chest. Staring.

"Yes, Sir?" Ilya asked him, suddenly shy.

"You have a name," said the cyborg, not asking. Stating.

"Yes, Sir. I'm Ilya," the boy told him.

"Ilya. You were… acceptable, at the gun. You did well."

Then, jerking his head at the little girl, he said.

"She has one, as well."

Took the boy a second to realize that this was another question.

"Um, in a way. Yes, Sir. Only, I don't remember it. We… my m… We always just called her 'Sissy'."

The Mechanic shook his head, no.

"That's stupid. Weak. Call her 'Katrin'."

Then, after a certain adjustment of rarely-used mental muscles, he added,

"I'm Kane. That'll do better than 'Mister'. If you're _in_ this family, then you're both Kanes, as well… only I am _the_ Kane. Remember that."

Ilya Kane nodded, feeling a weird prickle at the back of his eyes.

"Yes, Sir," he whispered. "We'll remember."

"Good. Go away and get something to eat. Rest. We're going after an old friend, next, because I want some insurance before we face the Kyranos, and get back my laser."

Ilya nodded, helping to steady his sister. Whatever Kane wanted, would happen. The boy would follow him anywhere, do whatever was necessary to earn, and keep, his hero's approval. No d*mn Tracy or Kyrano was going to stand in his way. Not now, and not _ever._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Titan, by the frigid shore of Lake Endurance, beside a half-buried escape pod-_

They'd been going back and forth for ten minutes, proposing and rejecting one idea after another for lifting that pod.

"We could use Thunderbird 3's grappling arms," Gordon suggested, pointing vaguely upward.

"She's moving too fast," John objected, with a shake of his head. Over-long, red-golden hair flopped into his eyes. A real problem, when wearing a helmet, because he couldn't touch his own face. "That arm 'll snap right off, as soon as she hits the atmosphere."

"Okay, Smartacus," Gordon shot back, growing nettled. "What's _your_ big idea? Use the magnetic cable?"

Behind his grimy faceplate, John's sea-green eyes narrowed.

"You may be onto something there, Gordon," he admitted. "Only, not the cable. Let me crunch some numbers. See what we can do with the forcefield projector."

A lot, as it turned out.

"Okay," said John to Lee, and his listening brothers. "How's this sound: you guys pull the shield off of 3, and reconfigure it into… h*ll, I dunno… a scoop or a hook. Something like that. Alter course to overshoot us, then grab the pod, while we ride along on its hull. Pull the whole deal inside, and slam, bam, thank you ma'am… we're done."

"Huh," Taylor's image grunted, as he shifted his mouth and mustache back and forth, considering. Then, _"Could_ work… except that part about ridin' along on th' hull like a couple o' ticks. Gonna be some kick-ass acceleration, there, Jase, goin' from a dead stand-still ta rocket speed. Y'll be knocked unconscious by th' shock, if not kilt outright."

"No, we won't!" Gordon argued, savagely kicking an icy and innocent rock. "We'll come through, right as rain, _and_ I'm growing a beard like a frickin' Dwarf-lord! Down to my waist by the time we get home, bet me!"

"That'll be interesting, in space," said John, before Taylor could fire a caustic reply. "Not sure how you'll manage to eat, but go ahead, have a good time."

Then, to Lee and the snickering Alan,

"Got any _better_ ideas? Gordon can't fly, and I used up too much thruster fuel getting us down here, to escape with _his_ heavy ass. Don't really want to leave him behind… Grandma 'd be pretty upset, and I'm not in the mood for another one of Scott's lectures."

Taylor's blue-grey eyes crinkled up. Half-smiling, half something else. There, but not acknowledged out loud.

"What the h*ll," said the battered old astronaut. "Ya gotta go, sometime… but if you boys fall off, I'm comin' in after ya, and chargin' _double_ my usual rate."

"What the h*ll," John agreed, smiling back. "Let's do this. I want to go home."


	32. Chapter 32

Hi, guys... me, again. =)

 **32**

 _Jakarta, in a dark, rubble-choked flood control culvert-_

Sherna regained consciousness suddenly. One moment, she was at home, helping her mother and sister prepare lamb curry, with rice… and the next, she was _here;_ lying flat on her back in a dark, crowded space. There was dust in the air, and an assortment of uncomfortable rocks beneath her back and her head. She was dizzy with exhaustion and thirst, but far from alone.

Small hands clutched her uniform blouse, and someone… Akash, most likely… had crept into the crook of her left arm. He lay curled up there, no doubt with his thumb in his mouth, which would ruin his teeth. Samir, in a soft, level whisper, was saying,

"She is tired from caring for us, and must rest. Soon, Amma will wake again, and take us out of here."

There it was, again. He'd called her "Amma". Mommy. In the darkness, Sherna smiled. No husband, and already four kids? Her reputation at home was about to become even worse. She coughed a bit, to let them know she'd awakened. Akash groped for her. She found and kissed the top of his tousled head, saying,

"Samir, are Maryam and Jordan here, too? Is everyone well?"

"Yes, Amma," he told her solemnly. Just a little voice in the blackness, trying hard to sound brave. "I have not let them wander."

Two of the hands clutching her arm tugged at the officer's uniform, and two more voices began babbling for attention, at once. Sherna hushed them gently, and then tried to rise. Only, her right leg would not follow her.

Concerned, the young peace officer shifted Akash, got her hands flat on the stony ground, and sat up a bit. Using her left leg and both arms, she tried to scoot backward. Could not, and a sudden flare of pain from the immobile leg soon convinced her to cease trying. Sitting up more, Sherna reached blindly out, feeling along her right leg until she encountered a wall of broken mortar and rock, about halfway down her right shin. Her leg was trapped; pinned beneath something far too heavy to shift. And, all at once, their situation shifted from dangerous, to deadly.

She'd thrown her cellphone into the Ciliwung, the night before, as its EM radiation drew mechs like wasps to dropped fruit. Still had her emergency service communicator, though.

"Little ones, you must be very quiet, now. I will contact my superiors, and summon help. Best behavior, please."

A chorus of sniffles and _yes, ma'ams_ faded to respectful silence, as Lieutenant Lasangah found her spare communicator, and attempted to switch the thing on. It sparked a bit and made static, but refused to broadcast or receive. Switching channels didn't help, either. After a moment, she set the comm down, and tried to think.

No one knew where she was, or even if she'd survived the night. Aunt Menna might have sent searchers, but they would not know where to begin looking, and might find her weeks or months later; long after it had ceased to matter. Calling out for help was not a good idea, because what might be drawn to the sounds of a trapped, injured woman and four small children, was far worse than mere thirst or starvation. Nor could she send Samir alone through the darkness, looking for help. Too dangerous.

She picked up her comm, again. It was a small, flat-ish box with a tiny screen, now dark, and a number of buttons at front. Prone to malfunction, the wretched things were referred to as 'emergency paper weights', around the office. But, the fact that it had hissed with static meant that at least there was power, if not a clear signal. Well… though not a man, she'd been raised to think quickly, and act decisively, and to never give in to despair.

Sherna began pressing the comm's send button like this: _tap, tap, tap… PUSH, PUSH, PUSH… tap, tap, tap._ Over and over, she repeated the primitive message, hoping that somebody, somewhere, would hear and investigate.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, making yet another counter-rotation of Saturn-_

It was Alan's idea, as usual. In his own haphazard way, the kid was a genius, coming up with stuff that routinely saved everyone else's collective ass. Brother ass, mostly.

"Uncle Lee," he ventured, as Taylor muttered and swore over those forcefield settings. "We could maybe use the inertia damper, couldn't we?"

Lee Taylor stopped moving. Didn't speak, but his bright, fierce gaze shifted sideways a little, to look at Alan's face. The youngest astronaut blushed to the roots of his golden-blond hair, and then bumbled onward.

"I mean… it's not very long-range, or big, or anything… would have to be boosted and projected out of medical, and down to the surface… but if it'll keep a patient still and undisturbed in the middle of rescue maneuvers…"

"It oughta cut down th' shock o' capture enough ta keep th' pod an' them boys in one piece!" Taylor finished for him, grinning wolfishly. "Alvin, y'r alright. In fact, y'r d*mn near royalty! Now, get ta work adaptin' th' thing, and I'll figger out how ta mate it with _this_ stubborn, sumbitch force projector. Piece o' sh*t don't wanta be reconfigured, but I'll _make_ it work, if I hafta climb down a tether, an' catch hold o' that pod with m' d*mn teeth!"

Alan giggled, glowing in Saturn's reflected, honey-gold light. Then he sobered, again, saying,

"We'll have to focus the damper mostly on that pod, Uncle Lee. I mean… Buddy and Ellie are why we came out here, in the first place. They're probably in real bad shape. Too much shock would kill them, and… and…" his thin shoulders sagged.

"An' y'r brothers is professionals, both of 'em. They knew what they was getting' into, from th' outset," Captain Taylor said distantly, nodding a little. His big-knuckled hands clenched themselves tight to the arms of his seat, as the astronaut shifted his gaze from Alan, to the streaming tan cloud banks of Saturn. Then, he gave himself a sort of full-body shake, and looked back; fierce, almost angry.

"Do y'r best, Kiddo. Boost that d*mn thing _past_ capability. I'll fly, you work th' capture. We need our best man on th' job, an' that's _you,_ Son."

Alan's sky-blue eyes grew very wide. Then, he turned grim and determined.

"Yes, Sir!" he replied, unstrapping to head back to medical. "I'm on it!"

Down on the surface of Titan, meanwhile, Gordon and John had at last finished digging. They'd got the escape pod mostly unburied; were tired, hungry, and more than ready for stage two.

"John," said Eos, as he was shifting one last double handful of ice. "While aware of your stated distaste for quoted odds, I feel obligated to inform you that this scheme has very little…"

"Do me a favor, Pretty Girl," John interupted, "and _don't._ Just, don't. Believe it or not, I can count. I _can_ do the maths for myself. Yeah… it's a stupid plan… but a _hair_ less suicidal than all the rest of them. Drop it, okay?"

Getting a hand up from Gordon, he climbed out of the Pod's freshly dug crater. Noticed that the wandering red dot on his wrist comm had started to flash. Jaeger. John shrugged, saying,

"Go ahead, Buddy. If you think there's something you can do to help, you've got full permission."

Gordon Tracy had been checking his scanner and watch. Now, he looked over at John, smiled a bit, and said,

"They'll be along in about five minutes, Bro. We'd better lash ourselves down to the pod, if we expect a lift out of here. Titan's nice, and all… but I wouldn't want to buy land, or anything."

Fists on his hips, John looked around at that bare, frozen surface; the brown-yellow sky and oily, rippling lake. At Saturn, silver-ringed and majestic, overhead.

"I dunno," he remarked. "You'd probably get a pretty good deal. Lots of free methane. And, hey…. Think of the privacy. Hardly any neighbors."

Gordon snorted with laughter.

"Yeah. _Your_ chatty ass. Just in case, this is _my_ spot. Lake Gordon, in full view of the beautiful Gordon Hills. You'll have to find your own homestead, somewhere else, Bro. I'm not sharing."

They'd begun harnessing up to the escape pod, which now sparkled and flared with laser-like red. Looked sort of weird, but if anyone could hold that brittle, cold-stressed metal together, it was Jaeger. Oddly enough, Gordon did not seem to notice, though the crimson sparks flared even brighter, where he'd clipped his harness.

"I'll settle wherever I land," John decided. "Squatter's rights. Take a hundred acres or so, to start with. Then, once the ranch gets going, I'll expand."

Gordon chuckled, rolled his sore shoulders a little, and performed another, reflexive gear check. Then, after clearing his throat, he held a loosely-clenched fist out to his brother, and quoted one of their favourite, pre-conflict movies: The Replacements.

"Hey, John," he said. "Pain heals…"

"Chicks dig scars…" John continued, bumping Gordon's fist.

"…And glory is forever," they finished, together.

Then, it was time.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 2, on fire-control detail, up in the cockpit-_

Max had been clamped to the copilot's seat beside Virgil, processing temperature data and looking for the next worst blaze. So far, they'd doused seventeen, flying in low and slow to spray whatever was burning, with pasty white chemical foam. Fifty-two point seven-one-five percent of their supply remained, meaning that Max was having to chose very carefully, in order to eliminate the infernos which threatened the _most_ damage. The _worst_ loss of life. A human might have had trouble deciding, but Max let the numbers speak for themselves, without regard to emotion. Or, so he thought… until a sudden, very weak signal got through to his sensors.

 _Dee-dee-dee… DAH-DAH-DAH… dee-dee-dee_

Twenty-five times, the message repeated, in _his_ favored human interface language, Morse code. It was SOS, a call for help. Turning his big-lensed head on its flexible neck, Max looked over at Virgil, his best friend, next to the Doctor.

The big human pilot hadn't heard the signal, or course. His sensors were far too limited for that. He was making noises, giving evidence of strain as he pulled Thunderbird 2 out of that seventeenth power-dive and chemical dump.

Virgil was good. A builder. A rescuer. He would want to learn of the signal, Max decided. He would want to go help threatened persons, weakly calling for aid.


	33. Chapter 33

'Allo! Thanks, Echo! =)

 **33**

 _Jakarta, at the ravaged main pump house, on a windy late afternoon-_

There were big, exciting rescue missions… the sort that got you featured on all the best news vids… and there were missions like _this_ one. Scott Tracy brought Thunderbird 1 down to a low hover. Carefully, he dropped to just above the cracked roof of Jakarta's central-west pumping station, amid dozens of crazily leaning old buildings. He couldn't land there, because scans showed that the roof was unstable and likely to collapse under strain. Got as close as he could, though; fighting a mean crosswind, as a trio of worried technicians rushed out with cables and hooked up to his Bird.

Most of the fires were out by this point, but the Mechanic had done so much damage that electricity would not be restored for days. Weeks, maybe. The GDF had a cargo of massive new generators on their way, (courtesy of Dad, actually). In the meantime, someone needed to restart Jakarta's flood control pumps. Otherwise, the city would vanish under twelve feet of brown, scummy water. "Someone" was Scott, in Thunderbird 1. On the bright side, his headache was gone.

He looked on through his Bird's lower canopy, as three tan-suited workers brought cables, then attached them to the power-feed coupling on 1's bright silver hull. Once he'd got a wave from the technicians, Scott shifted from ' _ready'_ to ' _discharge'_ , and watched half the city light up.

Glanced over to see if Kayo was impressed, but his sister wasn't paying attention. Had a soft, faraway look in her eyes, and the sort of half-smile that Scott associated with Penny, thinking of _him._ One of his favourite expressions on a female, as it usually forecast good times to come. Weird thing to see on his _sister,_ though. Growing suspicious, Scott cleared his throat. No reaction.

"Kayo!" he snapped, when his usual 'come to order' signal failed to get any attention.

"Mmm-hmm?" she responded, not really looking at him.

"Mind on the mission! Need you to keep an eye out for trouble, Kay. I've got to hold this hover in a Goddam crosswind, and maintain power levels for the next thirty-six _hours_. Otherwise, Jakarta's taking a bath. You watch Virgil, interface with Island Base, the local magistrate, and Dad. Better listen for word on our friend, the Mechanic, too… since the GDF is hella busy searching for him, everywhere they're sure that he _isn't._ Also…"

"Yes, your worshipful highness?" she prodded, once more fully engaged.

"See about towing that, um… the…"

"Your ship?" she suggested, breaking into a tight, savage grin.

Scott glared at her, but Tanusha just laughed. She'd never been able to resist teasing her crabby oldest brother. His crystal blue eyes narrowed beneath heavy dark brows.

"Haul that piece of crap to the junkyard," he snapped, "and get me a receipt."

Kayo's lips pursed. Briefly, she considered lying to him. But, where was the fun in that?

"Starmaid's been hauled, already," the girl admitted, with perfect truth.

Scott grunted in satisfaction, nodding to himself. Then, as sudden suspicion crept in,

"Wait. Hauled _where?"_

All at once, Tanusha Kyrano was the same wide-eyed, innocent girl that she'd always been, in the last few weeks before Christmas, or her birthday.

"Why… to the body shop on Global-1, of course, for registration and repair. Captain O'Bannon gave you a discount, even. You'll be soaring the bounding main again, in no time, dear brother."

Scott's jaw clenched. Through gritted teeth, he asked,

"How much… is all of this costing me?"

Kayo beamed at him.

"Well, with the discount and mate's rate… and O'Bannon being such a nice person… you get Starmaid back in two weeks, for the low, low price of 175,000 credits. A bargain."

Scott whuffed, as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"On top of a fifteen-thousand credit fine," he mumbled, looking deeply pained.

"Oh, come off it, Gotbux!" she teased, reaching forward to muss up his springy brown hair. "You're a _miser_. Pinch credits till they scream. Only guy with more money than you've got, is John, and that's down to appearance fees, every time Penny dusts him off and drags him away to one of her fancy black-tie things."

All at once, Scott's expression changed from bleak, to intrigued. Potential income always did that for him. Not that he needed it.

"Wait…. He gets _paid_ for those?" the pilot enquired.

"Yup. Ten-thousand's the going rate," she told him. "Gives half to Penny's endangered wildlife fund, and banks the rest. Considering that all he really wants is pizza and beer… and people usually donate those… our John is pretty well rolling in wealth."

Scott cocked an eyebrow.

"Okay," he decided. "From now on, half the time, she takes _me."_

"But, you _hate_ formal affairs," Kayo objected.

"Not anymore," Scott announced. "I've got a busted-ass pirate ship and four lazy brothers to support, plus my silver-haired granny."

"What about me?" Kayo asked him, grinning. "Aren't I on the Scott Tracy dole?"

"You're on your own," he replied. "Time you experienced the joys of hard work and self-sufficiency. Trust me, Kay, you'll emerge a better man, erm… _woman."_

Kayo smiled gently, making a mental note to call up O'Bannon about raising that repair bill. This was not over, yet.

Meanwhile, Virgil Tracy had just gone off-mission, again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _On the ground, in a rubble-choked culvert-_

Sherna had sent dozens of distress calls, meanwhile keeping up the children's spirits with word games and stories. Her own mood was more difficult to boost, as there was no one around to take charge of disaster, and tell her kind lies. Then, about an hour after her first signal was sent, Lieutenant Lasangah began to hear noises, from out beyond that high wall of rubble. Scratching, at first. Then distant, low thuds. Someone, or something, was breaking through. Drones? Or a rescuer? That depended very much on who, exactly, had won the ferocious air battle. If the Mechanic, then he was returning to do as he'd threatened.

Sherna stiffened, placing a hand each on Samir and Maryam, to quiet their talking. The little girl nudged her, creeping close to slip beneath her encircling arm.

"Someone's coming?" Maryam whispered anxiously; both wanting help, and afraid to learn who was out there.

"Yes," Sherna told her, caressing the girl's dust-matted hair. "And soon, we shall find out who. Samir?"

"Yes, Amma?" he asked. In her mind's eye, she could see him straightening his slim shoulders and standing up to full height.

"Take the others, and go on a bit farther down the tunnel. Here…" she found his small, grubby hand, and pushed her gun into it. Weak as the weapon was, it was all she had to offer, besides her emergency comm, and thus, the children's best chance. "Most likely, help has arrived, and we've nothing more to fear. If not…" She took a deep breath.

"Then, you must flee. Follow the tunnel out to the shore. There is a gate, but surely, someone will see you. A fisherman, or the shore patrol, perhaps. Use the gun at dire need. There is one shot left. You understand?"

Samir shook his head violently. She could feel the motion against her shoulder.

"No, Amma! I shall stay here, and…"

"Samir, you are the man of this family. You must protect the others, if I cannot. Now, take them and go, but not too far. Not yet. If something bad happens, do not listen. Just _run."_

He threw his arms around her, then, and hugged tight.

"I will go," he said, "but not far. And, if something bad happens, I will fight."

" _Samir…!"_

"I will fight," he insisted, stubbornly. "I am a man, and I have spoken, Amma."

She bit her lip, both smiling, and tearing up, a little.

"Go, then," she told him, adding Akash and the emergency comm to his burden.

"But not far," he reminded her, taking the whimpering boy from Sherna's arms.

"Not far," she agreed.

Once he'd taken the others and left, Sherna had nothing more to do but wait. The noises drew closer, grew louder, until a rock was pulled out of the pile, with that shrill, gritty scraping sound that one stone makes against another. Light flooded the tunnel; not very bright, in fact, but like an explosion to one trapped for hours in darkness. A male voice called out, then, saying,

"Hello? Someone in there need a hand? We're with International Rescue, and we're here to help!"

Lieutenant Lasangah started to reply, then began coughing from all of that billowing rock dust.

"I… yes! We are all here. A GDF peace officer, and four children. I have been injured by falling rock, and the children need water, food and safe shelter."

The noise of shifting rock ceased, and then the man said,

"Are you in immediate danger?" (He had an accent, Sherna noticed.)

She shook her head, causing loose black hair to tumble all over her face and shoulders. Aunt Menna would have been scandalized.

"I do not believe so, but my right leg is pinned, and I cannot move it."

"Right. Hold on, let me do another infrared scan… Okay, yeah. I see you. Have to take this kinda slow. Don't want anything else falling on top of you."

By this time, Samir had returned with Jordan, Maryam and little Akash. Sherna took back her gun, saying,

"Please, if you have water, could you push some through? The children have gone many hours without drinking."

"No problem, Officer," he called back, adding, "Heads up!" and then tossing in three clear plastic water pouches, along with a foil packet of biscuits. Strawberry cream, it said on the label.

He kept talking, which made Sherna smile, for she recognized the tactic; keeping her calm, while he assessed the situation. Perhaps a half-hour later, she at last saw their rescuer; a very handsome young man with dark hair and eyes, wearing some kind of powered exo suit. There was a largish white robot, as well.

"Virgil Tracy and Max, International Rescue," he said, offering his steel-clad hand. Quite gravely, she shook it, hearing the whir and hum of machinery, each time he moved. Shook the robot's plastic 'hand', as well.

"Sherna Lasangah, Lieutenant, Global Defense Force," she told him. "If you have a comm, Virgil Tracy, I should like to reassure my Aunt Menna…"

"Menna Abdel-Rahim?" he guessed. "The magistrate? Yeah, she's been looking for you. There's an island-wide hunt going on. I'll let her know. Now, let's get this slab off, and take a look at that leg, Lieutenant. Brace yourself. One… two… three… There you go! Good girl! I'm not Gordon, or anything, but I do alright with the bandages, in a pinch."

Beside the accent, he had a very odd way of expressing himself. Sherna chose not to judge. Not with four safe, smiling children, and relief flooding through her like post-fasting joy.

She hadn't realized that she was falling asleep, until she felt herself being lifted from the ground; her bandaged and splinted right leg supported by the warbling robot, while the young man carried the rest of her.

"The Mechanic…?" she murmured, fighting deep waves of exhaustion.

"Is long gone, Officer. I hear you stood up to the bas… that guy. Gave him a run for his money."

Lasangah shook her head wearily.

"He will come back to kill us, because I could not keep my promise, Virgil Tracy."

"That's what he told you, is it?" the young man remarked, looking grim. "Well, I intend to make sure he doesn't hurt you, or anyone else, ever again. That's _my_ promise, Lieutenant."

Smiling, she put off sleep long enough to say,

"The children… mine. Do not… not allow them… taken away."

Gazing down at one exhausted, battered and remarkable young officer, Virgil Tracy nodded.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. "The kids stay together, and they stay with you. Scout's honor."

Only then, did Sherna allow exhaustion to claim her; closing her eyes to the garbage-strewn riverbank and ash-clouded skies of her city.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Titan, lashed to a silent, frozen escape pod-_

They did not see her coming, for Thunderbird 3 was in space, high above. Probably just as well, because anticipation would have caused locked muscles, and possible brace injuries.

Gordon had been saying something. Might have been profound. Might even have been the joke that _finally_ made John laugh. Gone. Could only describe all that came next as "what a homerun ball feels like, coming off the bat". Or, in Gordon's case, as "the world's highest belly-flop".

They were jerked up so hard and so fast that their internal organs would have been pulped to jelly, had it not been for that dampening field, which leaked just enough past the pod to defend them. Did not take three seconds from flat stop to midair to star-gleaming space. _Then,_ saw Thunderbird 3, growing fast, as they were reeled up like fish to its gaping-wide hold.

Too concussed to understand what they were seeing, though. Just: surface, space, stars, huge planet, red thing, and inside. Took forever to recall their own frickin' names, or report the number of fingers that blond kid was holding up. Um… _twelve?_ Guy with the mustache looked upset. Weren't sure why. Noisy. Confusing.

John recovered first. Thanks to Eos, maybe. Straightened from his huddled crouch, looked around and saw Alan, who seemed like he wanted to cry.

"What's wrong?" said John, who hurt about ten feet beyond his actual body, in all directions at once. "Made it, right? Favourite parts still attached?"

Lee glided up, put both hands on his shoulders and said,

"What's y'r name, Son?"

 _Really?_ Impatiently, he responded with,

"John Matthew Tracy, first lieutenant, Global Space Corps, inactive reserve."

"What's th' year, Lieutenant?" asked Lee, looking hard at his eyes.

"Um… uh… 20… 2061? Tuesday?"

Out of the corner of his mouth, Lee said to Alan,

"Seems a mite confused, but okay, other'n that. How 'bout Godfrey?"

"Throwing up, again," Alan reported, looking harassed. "I swear, once this is over, I'm never letting _anyone_ back in my ship, _ever_ again! I'll rescue with virtual reality! What a mess! And it stinks like _fart_ , in here!"

"Methane," said Lee, trying not to laugh. "Cut on th' scrubbers, Alvin. Oughta clear right up."

All of this was distantly interesting, but John wanted to sleep. Except, Lee kept prodding him awake with dumbass questions. And then, once Gordon could see straight, they opened the pod.


	34. Chapter 34

Well, c'est fini... mostly. Got a few loose ends to epilogue the _crap_ out of. But, by and large, ca c'est tout, les mecs! Thanks for reading, guys. It's been a lot of fun. =)

 **34**

 _Thunderbird 3, in the cargo hold-_

Ideally, they would have gotten more time to rest and recover, but with a damaged pod of explorers to breach, no one wanted to just go lie down. A little aspirin worked wonders, though… and Eos did some of the rest.

The escape pod had been gently steaming and creaking, as it warmed and expanded inside the Bird's hold. Smelt like an outdoor latrine in the summer, horribly mixed with old sweat socks and garbage. Made noises like a creepy old house, after dark.

 _Someone_ had to go fly the rocket, so Alan shot back up front, after giving his rescued brothers a (very gentle) pat on the back. Gordon was fighting a Scott-sized headache, but this time, he insisted on being there to help open that hatch. Buddie and Ellie were his friends, and, though he'd faltered on Titan, the swimmer had got it together, now. John would not have to step in for him, this time. Nor, ever again.

He had his patented "Nosey Parker Special" safe-cracking tool out, _and_ his "better than miracle", no-fail first aid supplies. Didn't joke around, though. Focused on the picture in his head of two safe, living explorers, with a tense background of: _please, please, please…,_ and tautly crossed fingers.

John glanced over his way, looking like he wanted to say something, but didn't quite know _what._ The thought counted, though. It really did.

Gordon took a deep breath, nodded, and then set to work popping the hatch, which cracked in the process of swinging open. Bit of a pressure difference caused a sharp hissing noise, and a little condensation to form. Rained, too… for about half a second.

Gordon swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, said,

"Hey, you guys… we're here,"

…and then edged within. Not enough space there for bold, manly strides, or for John and Uncle Lee, who stood ready at the portal. He saw… a cramped, stained interior, padded in white. Saw Buddy, sitting down on the escape pod's one seat, with Ellie snuggled close on his lap, her head against his chest. They were holding hands in a funny way; fingers interlaced, as though pressing something tight between their two, ungloved palms.

Gordon stared for a second, checked his scanner, then grinned and whooped aloud.

 _"_ _YES_ _! Yes, SIR!"_ He fist-pumped the air, almost cracking his skull on the overhead, with the force of his leap. "John! Uncle Lee! It's okay! It's a stasis disk! They're in stasis! That big, crazy sonuvabitch saved them both, with one frickin' disk! Dude, Buddy… _I love you, Man!"_

Embracing both hard-as-stone figures, Gordon next set about trying to shut off that shared stasis disk. Had never seen one used that way, before. Hadn't even guessed you could _do_ that. With all the released tension, he developed some eye trouble; prickling sensation, blurred vision, occasional leaking… that sort of thing. Blinked it away, though, and began sorting through his med-kit for a way to reverse their stasis. Then, more fingers crossed, more pent breath; because, as everyone knew, _sometimes, they didn't come out._

But a second passed, two… and then Buddy and Ellie, softened, warmed, slumped in their seat, and began breathing. Buddy raised his head, with that lucky red beanie on. Nuzzled his sleepy wife, and looked up, blinking, at Gordon. Then he grinned, wreathing his broad, homely face in smile crinkles.

"Ya found us! Good onya, Mate! El, Chookie, wake up 'n look lively! We got company. Look Oo's rocked up t' the door!"

As she wriggled and opened her wide blue eyes to smile up at Gordon, Buddy gave her a squeeze and said,

"There, Luv! Didn' I say it'd come right, in the end? Safe as houses, Luv o' me life, that's you with ol' Buddy!"

"'Ullo, Gordon," she whispered, "Thanks so much… must've been a right trek, comin' out here, like this."

Shrugging modestly, the swimmer glanced back at John and Lee before saying,

"Pffft! Trek? _This?_ Nah… videos and popcorn, the whole way. We had trouble staying awake. Right Uncle Lee? John?"

John Tracy came as close to grinning as anyone had ever seen. Then he backed Gordon's fib.

"If they're _all_ this boring, we're going to have to start lying to the oversight committee about our missions, or they'll replace us with robots."

The sound of his voice caused Buddy to look around. Squinting past Ellie at John, he smiled and said,

"G'day, Bluey! You lot wouldn' 'appen t' have summat t' eat, would you? The missus, 'ere, could do with a bite, I expect."

Gordon had been saving two celery crunch bars since the start of the mission. Now, he pulled them out of a sash pouch and handed them over, saying,

"Eat up, you two. This is as good as it gets, till we reach Jove Station… but there's all the rehydrated crud you could ask for, up in the galley. Okay… slow and easy, now. Ellie, if you'll let me, I'll just pick you up, and swing you over to John, okay? You remember my brother, right? He'll get you down to medical… _where Captain Taylor should be, too_ … and get an IV in you."

She nodded assent, being too weak to do much talking. Very carefully, Gordon took her from Buddy, who'd kissed her forehead many times, then pulled his best lucky red beanie lower over her face, by way of goodbye. She hadn't eaten much of the crunch bar, for her stomach was shrunken and cramping. Pretty clearly, Ellie was going to need lots of help, stat.

"Careful, John," Gordon said to his older brother, while handing over one of the most beautiful, sweetest and bravest females, ever. "Get her started, okay? I'll be up in a flash."

"Will do." Then, as Ellie was transferred to his waiting arms. "Going for a little trip, Ma'am. I've got you."

She sighed, nodded, and closed her eyes again, resting her head on John's chest. As his brother glided off with the fading young woman, Gordon Tracy next turned to Buddy. The explorer had pushed himself up off the seat, using his artificial blade-foot as a hook to keep from drifting. Gordon offered him a handshake, and got pulled into a tight, back pounding hug, instead.

"Gordon, Mate… cobber… _thank you._ When we make our movie, y've got a starrin' role, if ya want it, ya ol' bastard!"

"Are you kidding me?! That'd be _awesome!_ Dude! Like, better than _anything!_ What happened?! I want to know before anyone else! You found the elusive mud-worm, didn't you?"

"Too right!" laughed Buddy, as Gordon shifted him out of the pod, and over to Lee. "Just wait 'll you see the footage, Mate! Y'll toss a wobbly!"

Then, as he turned to face Captain Taylor,

"G'day, Mate! Don't b'lieve we've met. Buddy Pendergast, 'ere, star of _'Into the Unknown, with Buddy an' Ellie'!"_

Taylor nodded, his blue-grey eyes crinkling up with suppressed mirth.

"Yup. Sounds familiar, awright. Godfrey mighta mentioned ya, wunst or twice. Good ta meetcha, Barney. M' name's Taylor. Lee Taylor, GDF Space Corps, retired. Recently UN-retired by Spencer, f'r this 'ere cakewalk mission. Now, lets getcha down ta medical with Amy, so's Doc Godfrey c'n work his voodoo chants over ya both. Watch out, though. He _does_ love 'is needles."

Buddy opened his mouth, then shut it again. Sometimes, he'd learnt, it was best just to nod and smile and keep on walking.


	35. Chapter 35

Okay, so I might have been a little premature in declaring things over. My bad... Thanks, as ever, Bow Echo and Akimakel. Your reviews keep me motivated! =)

 **35**

 _Thunderbird 2, on final approach to Island Base-_

"See you back at the ranch," he'd said, before streaking away from Java, as fast as his Bird would go. Might have forgotten to press the 'send' button, though. Y'know… hypothetically.

Virgil Tracy was tired, and a bit giddy, in that _'boy, am I in trouble'_ kind of way. Yes, he'd almost single-handedly doused those fires… but he'd also picked a dangerous midair fight with the Mechanic, and then gone off-mission to rescue a trapped peace officer and four small children. Scott was going to bust his ass for it, too. No ifs, ands or butts… except _his,_ in a sling.

"Well, Max…" Virgil said, as he brought the big cargo-lifter around to line up with her runway, "I look at it this way: was I supposed to just let that murderous bastard tear up the city? Ask him politely, _"Please, Sir, do you mind if I put out those fires you set? Promise, I'll stay out of your way… Huh? Can I, please?"_ then hope he was feeling frickin' generous? Having a good villain day?!"

Max made a sharp metallic blatting noise, his lens covers scowling ferociously.

 _"Exactly!_ And then, as far as dropping fire-control to go save a woman and four little kids? _Seriously?_ Last time I checked, we were still International _Rescue,_ right? Not International Rules and Regulations! Dammit! Why isn't John back?!"

Grandma's holographic image appeared then, as Base called in to clear him for landing.

"Watch y'r language, Teddy," she reprimanded the young pilot… though not very fiercely. "And, come on home. There's someone here who'll be _particularly_ glad t' see you."

Thinking of Emma, Virgil cheered up in a hurry. Scott was going to be stuck in Jakarta for another day or so, at least. Meaning that the looming lecture and ass-chewing were still a ways off. His woman and home, on the other hand, were right here and _now._

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, starting to smile. "I'll be glad to see her, too. And the rest of you guys, of course."

"Of course," the old lady replied, blue eyes sparkling through the lenses of her old-fashioned spectacles. "And I made you a special meal, just to celebrate the homecoming."

Virgil's smile faltered. He was a courageous young man, however, and managed not to flinch, saying,

"Wow… thanks, Grandma. I, uh… can't wait."

She laughed at him, saying,

"Relax, Virgil. You're safe… it's something they brought over from Union Jack. All I did was reheat it for you."

The pilot grinned at her image; cutting air speed and dropping altitude, as he made ready to land.

"Love you, Grandma. There before you know it!"

The robot beside him uttered a series of insistent beeps and chirps. Virgil nodded.

"Yeah. Sure will, buddy... Max, too. He's ready for a nice, relaxing recharge and power-down."

Grandma chuckled.

"Got it. Two weary rescuers, comin' in hot. See you inside, Teddy… _and_ Max."

This landing went off without a hitch. Smooth as butter, he brought her in low over sparkling water and tossing whitecaps. Flared up just a little, once he was feet-dry, and then touched down with hardly a bounce. Next brought her nose down and started to roll, receiving the robot version of 'Nice landing', and a high-five from Max.

Getting into his Bird involved a long, backward slide down that crazy conveyer belt system. Getting out? Well, all he had to do, once he'd taxied past all those burnt palm stumps and into the hangar, was bring her to a full stop, take a walk down the boarding ramp, and head for the showers, whistling. Easy.

Virgil braced himself with a hand to a vibrating pneumatic strut, as 2's ramp slid down to the hangar floor. He patted it, looking up for a moment at the big, upside-down **2** painted on his girl's flat belly.

"I don't care what he says," the pilot told her, as robots scurried up to refuel and scrub the big Bird. "We did good, today. Fires out, and lives saved. That's what I call a job well done."

Max chirped hearty agreement. He'd locked his treads and lowered his center of mass as a precaution against slippage, so didn't need to hang onto _crap…_ but his status lights were dimming, and those lens covers had started to droop, indicating one badly worn robot rescuer. Virgil gave him a friendly pat, as their ramp boomed to a stop on the polished cement floor.

"Go plug in, somewhere, buddy. And, for the record... you can fly with me, _anytime_."

Max curled his plastic fingers into a loose fist, which Virgil bumped with his own. Then they parted company; Max rolling off to the service area, while Virgil headed straight for the showers, already peeling down.

Threw everything into a pile on the floor of the white-tiled bathroom, and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it. Also started humming, because music was never far from the top of Virgil Tracy's mind. His own composition, this time.

Replayed and refought his entire confrontation with the Mechanic as he lathered up, brushed his teeth, and washed all that tension away. Had cut off the water at last, and opened the stall door, was just feeling around for a towel, when one hit him square in the face, _hard._

"Huh?" Virgil grunted, backing a pace and seizing the towel. Managed to simultaneously shove the wet dark hair from his eyes, and whip the towel around his own narrow waist. Saw Emma, looking completely furious.

"Hey, Angel," he said, automatically standing straighter and flexing, a bit. After all, seemed like a shame to waste this perfectly…

"Don't you _'Hey Angel'_ me, Virgil Tracy!" she snapped, stepping up to shove him. "What the h*ll were you trying to do?!"

"Uh… take a shower? Kinda thought you'd like it better if I…"

"Not _that,_ Dumbass! In Jakarta! What the h*ll possessed you to challenge a d*mn supervillain, in a quantum nano-crap, unarmed cargo plane?! Are… you… effing… _crazy?!"_

These last words were punctuated by a flurry of punches to his gut and jaw. Ordinary female strength, so he hardly felt them, but pretty clearly, she was a little upset.

"Well, I…"

"Permission not granted to speak!" she raged, holding up the hand that wore his ring. "This… this is… _nothing!_ It's f***ing _meaningless…_ if you aren't planning to stay alive! You Goddam… sonuvabitch… don't you _ever_ almost get yourself killed, _again!"_

More punches, and one furious shove. Virgil seized her hands, then pulled her in close.

"Hey… hey, it's alright. I'm fine, Angel. Nothing happened. We fought to a draw, and he left. Shhh… shhh… it's okay."

She was shaking, and stiff in his arms as a pine tree. So, he rubbed her back, and nuzzled the top of her head, getting blondish-brown hair in his eyes.

"No!" she snapped, as he shifted his kiss to her forehead. "You're not gonna get around me this time with muscles and a charming smile, Mister!"

"How 'bout kisses?" he suggested, finding her mouth, and the top button of her uniform blouse. "Will those work?"

"Mmm-mmm! No! And not backrubs, or… or grabbing my ass, either!"

"Uh-huh," he responded, undoing another button. "What else can I not do? Just for, y'know… future reference."

Under her cammo uniform blouse was a black tee shirt. Under that, a standard issue government bra. Under _that?_ Well, _score._

"Can't do that, either," she gasped, when he lifted his head to grin at her. "Won't work, Taz. You're still in trouble."

"D*mn! And just when I thought I was getting someplace…"

Her arms had gone 'round his neck, which pressed her up against Virgil's hard-muscled chest and skimpy white towel. The number **2** was tattooed on his left pectoral; on his right bicep, a cartoon Tasmanian Devil. Black hair, still wet, draped over his forehead.

"Know what you need?" he teased, starting to work on her belt, while shifting his kisses from breast to mouth, and back again.

"What?" she whispered, tugging loose that d*mn towel.

"A nice, hot shower."

This time, there were no interruptions.

XXXXXXX

 _London, at the GDF maximum security prison hospital ward-_

It was quite easy to see where the intruder had burst into the building, and a very simple matter to trace his route, once inside. A large, smoking hole had been smashed clear through the prison wall. All power was out, while the prison's computerized defenses had not only failed, they'd turned and taken down the few guards who'd tried to fight. Cameras had malfunctioned, as well.

A trail of sparking, haywire machinery and unconscious doctors… one of them folded in half, backward… led through the ward to a specially shielded cell. Intended to completely isolate its inmate, the spherical cell had been cracked apart like a walnut. Detonated, almost. Long, neutronium-steel shards had been driven like quivering spears through the prison ward's ceiling and walls, two of them impaling a guard and a nurse like pinned butterflies.

As for the inmate, he was gone; seized in the night by a fast-moving, half-machine juggernaut. The break-in was hushed up by the GDF, but Colonel Tracy… high in the chain of command… learned what had happened next morning. Might have been a breech of protocol, but Jeff immediately got on his personal comm and informed International Rescue. Someone had stolen the Hood.


	36. Chapter 36

Hi, guys! Happy New Year! Busy snipping loose ends, as fast as I can. Thank you, Bow Echo, Akimakel and "Guest" for taking the time to review. I appreciate your feedback.

 **36**

 _Thunderbird 1, still hovering in place, over Jakarta's main pumping station-_

"You mean, somebody _wants_ him?" Scott marveled, staring at his father's grim holo. He'd just got word that the Hood had been taken from prison.

"So, it would appear," Jeff responded, in a deep and carrying voice. He seemed to be at his desk in the World Council building… and not very happy. With a sharp, iron-grey crewcut and razor-creased GDF uniform, Colonel Tracy looked like a hero. Like a legend, sprung to life. "Wanted him badly enough to break into prison, and steal him. Multiple casualties, 387,000 credits worth of damage, and an unknown assailant at large, in possession of the Hood."

Scott's blue eyes narrowed.

"Okay, but… why tell _us_ , Dad… erm, Colonel? IR's not a law enforcement organization. This situation is _way_ outside our jurisdiction, on every level."

Colonel Tracy rubbed at the top of that brand-new flattop with a big hand, saying,

"Because we don't know who took him, or why. Could be, it's an enemy of the Hood's, out to settle a score… in which case a body 'll turn up, sooner or later. _Or…_ could be that one of his allies got in and sprung him. Worst case scenario, he's back in action, and loaded for bear."

Scott made a face.

"Loaded for _us,_ you mean. What's the official line on all this?"

Jeff shook his head, breaking eye-contact with his son to tidy a stack of already squared-away file cases.

"There isn't one, Scott. As far as the council's concerned, it never happened. Total media blackout."

"So… we're on our own, then?" said the pilot, forcing himself to remain calm. Would have said more, but then Kayo cut in, leaning past his shoulder with,

"There's valuable intel just lying about over there, I'll bet. Why don't I summon up Shadow, and go have a look, Dad? You don't have to officially send me, or anything. Plausible deniability, and all that."

Jeff's brown eyes crinkled in the barest of smiles.

"That's my girl," he said proudly, adding, "I can't officially condone your actions, but… fly safe, Princess."

She grinned at him, already unstrapping and pressing her comm switch; green eyes alight with the promise of good hunting to come.

"I'm better than safe, Dad… I'm the best d*mn pilot you've got."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird 3, approaching Jove Station-_

Alan Tracy had done most of the recent flying, as Captain Taylor needed rest, his brothers were pretty concussed, and there were two frail, half-starved passengers to tote. Consequently, he spent a lot of time in the hot seat, between Saturn and Jupiter.

Their course had needed adjusting, but the biggest thing Alan did was expend _loads_ of fuel slowing down. You couldn't just slam on the brakes, in space. You had to fire retro-rockets, using their thrust to reduce your momentum, and that meant burning fuel by the crap-ton. Hadn't wanted to do it before, because they'd been in such a tearing hurry to reach Titan, and then to head back. Now, though… unless he wanted to miss their only chance to refuel and restock before Mars, Alan _had_ to slow down. A lot. Like, really soon.

Tried to be smooth about it, but every time he fired those rockets, the entire Bird shook; booming and humming like a street sign in a hurricane. Medical had its inertia damping field back in place, so the patients weren't badly affected. It was Alan who felt like the guy riding a jack-hammer pogo stick.

Like John at Titan, though, he had to get it just right, or risk A: overshooting the slow-moving station, or B: crashing right through it. Fortunately, Alan was a natural pilot. Not a numbers guy, like Uncle Lee, nor as _seat-of-the-pants-what-the-h*ll-let's-do-this_ as John (who came up a few times, between rocket burns, to let Alan sleep).

Long story short, he got them there safely, being the kind of hero nobody ever wrote about, or featured in news vids. Just a guy in the background, quietly getting the job done.

"Hey, Conrad!" Alan called out, when the big, double-wheel station hung shining before him. "This is Thunderbird 3, heading home. I've got a hungry rocket, and three messed-up people needing a doctor. Any room at the inn?"

His view screen split. Now, one side showed Jove Station, with Jupiter glaring like the Angel of Death far behind her. The other side displayed an image of Charles Conrad, the young station manager, and a very good friend.

"Hey, Alan! Good to see you guys. Docking port 52 is wide open, and ready to go. Come on in. Showers are hot, and steaks 're hitting the grill!"

Alan grinned back.

"That's the best news I've heard since _'Time to go home, Alan'!_ Tell me there's a game room, and I'm moving in!"

Conrad grimaced, mussing the shiny black hair at the back of his head.

"Well, um… actually, Alan, most of our clientele are asteroid miners and out-bound long-haul pilots. They're more into the bar scene than video games. Sort of a rough crowd, you know? I've got a pretty fancy rig, though, up in my quarters. You and John and Gordon are welcome to use that one. We could have a tournament!"

"You're on!" Alan laughed. "But I gotta park Thunderbird 3, first. Gimme a sec, okay?"

The docking coordinates had flashed onto his lower view screen, along with a set of virtual landing lights, guiding him in to dock 52. Jove Station was huge; consisting of two concentric slow-spinning rings set at right angles, for gyroscopic stability. A spherical center hub was maintained in place by force beams, and reached via shuttle. That was command and control. The rings held everything else.

Alan had no trouble with docking. Anyone who could casually thread the needle of Thunderbird 3 down through the ring house and back to her hangar, found _this_ sort of thing, no challenge at all. He just concentrated on staying within the landing-light path, slowing down with a last few burns, and getting a firm collar lock.

The feeling, when 3 at last stopped moving, except to whirl along as part of the station, made Alan want to kiss someone. Fleeting thoughts of Kayo passed through his mind, then. She was so beautiful, and strong, and… well, everything a sister wasn't supposed to make him think about. Only, she wasn't around, and wouldn't have given him a thought if she had been, except to ruffle his hair and call him 'Sprout'. Great. Frickin' awesome. He didn't _want_ to be a sprout. He wanted… yeah. Stuff he wasn't supposed to.

Alan sighed; knowing and hating the truth. He was sixteen years old. A skinny blond kid with big ears and a squeaky voice. Then, he scowled and shook his head. Even Virgil had gone through a gangly phase; all legs and arms and incompetence. Grandma had told him that. Maybe, that meant there was hope for _him,_ too? Getting some confidence back, Alan punched the ship's comm button, and sang out,

"Rise 'n shine, you guys! Wakey-wakey, eggs 'n bakey! And that's not just a cruel joke, this time. We made it! We've reached the station! We're halfway home!"

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Thunderbird Shadow, gliding west like a phantom-_

Tanusha Kyrano waited until the big island of Java was over the horizon; and then, after that, until not even the tell-tale cloud bank, above, was in sight. Only after, did the girl lock in her course, and place Shadow on autopilot.

She loved her plane, which had something of bat, and something more of an old SR-71 Blackbird, in its design DNA. It was built for speed and stealth; for getting to places quickly, that not even Scott could reach, in Thunderbird 1. It could also launch and fly itself; getting Kayo out of innumerable scrapes, and allowing her to zip into action on her motorcycle, while Shadow remained in the air. Of course, the boys preferred their own Birds, but they were perpetually stewed in testosterone. What the h*ll did they know?

Getting away from Scott allowed her to think, which she very much needed to do. The view and the distance brought peace; the silence, a measure of calm. The ocean below was blue-green, touched with long swathes of seaweed brown. There were tall, grey-purple clouds piling up in the south, gilded with sunglow and speared through by flashes of lightning. Had to be up here to see all that, though. You missed so much, from down on the ground.

…and she was avoiding the inevitable. Avoiding _him._ There had been a sort of pressure building in Kayo's mind for hours, now. She knew who it was, and that… uncharacteristically… he was _asking_ admission, rather than just barging in.

With Shadow flying itself, Kayo turned toward that spot in her mind, and said,

"What _now?"_

And, just like that, she was someplace else. In thought, at least. Not the souvenir shop, this time. A dark stone chamber she didn't recognize, but sensed to be far underground and… and south?

Nikorr was there. _Not_ lounging about, bored and jaded. Looking alert; almost angry. Would not reply to her rude question, of course. So, she took a new tack.

"I take it _you_ didn't pop the Hood out of his cell, last night?"

"No," he admitted, "we did not… and thus, my predecessor's whereabouts are a subject of grave concern. He is to be returned to us, at once."

Her handsome cousin then pressed harder on Kayo's mind, trying to compel obedience. She fought back, coming very close to pushing him out of her head, this time. Kayo grinned, briefly, dropping into a ready stance, and starting to circle; a little playful, a little threatening.

"Getting better, aren't I?" she teased. "What 'll you do, when I'm strong enough to kick your arse, Niko?"

He shrugged.

"What else? Have you killed. In the meantime, though, I would consider it a… a personal _favor_ , if you would find and return the previous Kyrano. I do not wish him incarcerated by Typicals, nor running loose to hatch plots. He must be returned for proper execution."

Kayo's circling had been bringing her gradually closer to Nikorr, who, without seeming to move, continually faced her. Like a hologram.

"You _do_ realize he's my uncle, right?" she demanded, straightening up, again. Once more, Nikorr shrugged.

 _"And_ mine. What of it? We had an agreement, Tanusha. I released your pathetic World Council and rerouted the microwave beam, in return for the "Hood", and his two assailants. I even sped that ridiculous rescue mission, for them. _You,_ on the other hand, have done nothing. This puzzles me, for you were raised with that pack of slobbering mongrels, and should have absorbed some of their "honor". Why the delay?"

Kayo took a sudden step closer, or tried to. Without moving, or drawing nearer the walls of the chamber, Nikorr maintained their separation. So,

"The Hood isn't mine to give you," she told him. "But, I'm on my way back to London, now, to find out what I can about his kidnapping. I'm willing to share what I learn, Niko… but not to just hand him over, without a fair trial. As for Scott and John…" she shook her head. "They'll come beat your butt, if they decide that they want to."

"And _you?"_ her cousin enquired, all at once directly before her. "If information, and _you_ , are an acceptable trade… will you return to the family?"

Very slowly and deliberately, he reached out to run a forefinger along the side of her face and down to the point of her chin, letting his hand drop for a moment, to the girl's chest. They were not in a physical place, meaning that his touch was not only felt on the surface. The contact shot clear through her like whiskey. Like fire.

"No promises," she managed to say, as though the caress hadn't moved her a bit. Then, Kayo broke the connection, because she couldn't trust him. Wouldn't allow herself to.

…But, then again, she wasn't trustworthy, either. And, worst of all, knew it.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jove Station, in distant orbit 'round Jupiter-_

They stayed at the big, whirling station for nearly a week. The place was _enormous,_ especially after months of Thunderbird 3.

Alan hung out with Conrad a lot, which meant that he spent loads of time at the central hub, helping out with operations. Quite a job, too. Besides traffic control and maintenance, there was a crew of over a hundred to deal with, plus all of those visiting miners and freight pilots, heading to and from the far colonies. A few tourists and reporters, as well, because Jove Station was the last GDF outpost before you hit the literal 'outlaw', where the captain turned into a life-or-death god. Some folks ate up that feeling of danger.

Not Alan. The first thing he did was to take a long and glorious shower; getting out of the dang space suit and actually s _tanding_ under a spray of hot water jets, for nearly an hour. Kept almost falling asleep in there, except food had been promised, too. _Real_ food. The solid kind, that you had to eat with a knife and a fork, not squeeze from a sack.

Hadn't realized how scruffy and long-haired he'd gotten, until he caught a look at himself in the mirror, once he'd stepped out of the stall and wiped off all that condensation. Peered closely for blossoming muscles, but… nope; still looked like a weedy scrub, compared to his brothers. Like the team mascot, or something.

Posed for a minute, practicing his intense, manly scowl and determined posture. All while wrapped up in a big, fluffy blue 'Jove Station' bathrobe. (Available for purchase at the station souvenir shop, just 52 credits, plus tax.)

Then, feeling a bit silly, he put on jeans and a hooded red sweat shirt, plus his favourite white trainers, and went off to find Conrad, who'd promised him lunch.

As for Gordon, _he_ stayed with Buddy and Ellie. First, just seeing that they got patched up, then helping them film a conclusion. Also, eating whatever anyone cared to set before him, because, hey… mighty deeds build up an appetite.

There were twelve unattached females on Conrad's crew, and Gordon Tracy soon contrived to meet _all_ of them. After all, it would have been a disservice to the female population of the universe, if Gordon hadn't spread himself fairly. On the whole, he had a very good time, especially once the Pendergasts heard rumors of the "Elusive Jovian storm-beast", and began making plans for episode 90.

John spent the first few days making certain that Lee stayed put, down in sickbay. Had to threaten violence with a crowbar, to make Taylor lie down and just heal. Did his best to dodge reporters, in the meantime, and backed out of more than a cameo appearance on _'Into the Unknown'_. Just… not into publicity, y'know?

Took awhile to get used to sleeping in gravity, again, because that sensation of being pressed on one side bothered the crap out of him. On the other hand, eating was a whole lot easier when food and crumbs stayed down on the plate, instead of forming constellations in mid-cabin. So, yeah… pros and cons.

Finally, Captain Taylor's heart muscle was fully repaired, and Doctor Culver declared the astronaut free to go. (Seemed d*mn glad to be rid of him, actually.) John shook her hand, submitted to a selfie, and then got his grumbling uncle the h*ll away from there. Outside of sickbay, Lee stopped him short, saying,

"There's a bar on this rig, ain't there, Jason?"

John nodded cautiously.

"Yes, Sir. I think so. Haven't spent much time looking around."

Taylor broke into a big, wicked grin and rubbed his hands together, saying,

"Then, what th' h*ll 're we waitin' for? I owe ya a drink, an' nobody c'n perfess ta bein' a man, if he ain't got inta at least _one_ barfight, in space. Y'r education's sorely lackin' in specifics, Son. I aim ta repair that, startin' right now."

"Um…" He wasn't dressed for a fight, wearing just jeans, boots and a long-sleeved black tee-shirt with **'5'** decaled on. Also, fighting in gravity wells was a bitch… but, Lee was still talking, dragging John determinedly down the rumbling passageway.

"Now, there's two ways ta start an altercation in y'r average drinkin' establishment. Take notes, Jase. This here's what y'd call critical information, an' I expect it passed on, wunst th' time comes. First, find th' ugliest, meanest, most cross-grained sonsuvbitches in th' d*mn place, an' tell 'em they're in y'r seats. Pretty much never fails, though ya might have ta throw in some sh*t about their spacecrafts 'n mothers, if they seems reluctant. Got all that, Jase?"

"Um, yessir, but…"

"Good," Taylor nodded approvingly. "Knew ya was smarter 'n average. Second way's quicker, and a touch more risky. Ya gotta find th' best lookin' female at th' waterin' hole, sit down alongside 'er, an' offer ta buy 'er a drink. Guaranteed, some big-ass meathead 'll roll up, an' invite ya ta step outside."

John processed this information in silence for a bit, as Captain Taylor was consulting a handy wall map.

"What if all you want is a beer?" he asked, once they'd begun moving, again. "Sit beside a bunch of accountants, and pick regular females?"

"H*ll, where's th' fun in _that?"_ Lee demanded, seeming exasperated. "Course, y'r daddy allus _was_ th' one as needed th' most convincin'. Had one eye on his rank, th' whole d*mn time. Me an' Pete was th' ones lookin' ta shake things up."

John tried to visualize _dad,_ Colonel Jeff Tracy, getting into a barfight. He couldn't… which was why he allowed himself to get roped into that mess at the Jove Station Storm Front.


	37. Chapter 37

Hey, all! The loose ends are falling, and the story is nearly complete, promise. Thanks, Echo, and Tikatu, for reading and reviewing.

 **37**

 _Jakarta… still hovering over that wretched pump station-_

By this time, Scott Tracy had run out of mental word games to play, had checked all his emails, left a message for John, and composed another stanza of poetry. (Not that he'd ever show it to anyone else; that aspect of Scott's life was one-hundred percent private.) Had established that serving as battery for half the city was about as interesting as it sounded, and that the family of magpies atop that pump station were sort of entertaining to watch. Good thing those new generators were being installed, he thought… willing the process still faster.

Then, a rust-flecked yellow elevator car came trundling along over the roof, piloted by one of the Java Power crew. There was a passenger, too. At first, Scott could not make him out. Not until…

"Scotteeee! My man! How's it hangin', Bro? It's me! Brandon Berenger! You know… B-Rad?"

A sudden teddy bear icon popped up on his public comm screen, giving way to the image of a whooping teenaged boy. Scott's crystal-blue eyes widened. Briefly, he tensed, looking wildly around, as though seeking a means of escape. Then, finding his voice, the pilot snapped,

"Brandon! It's dangerous, out here! I'm in the middle of a critical mission!"

"I know, _right?"_ Brandon called over the comm, waving enthusiastically. The elevator car had ground to a pebble-flinging halt, and now boosted Brandon clear up to Thunderbird 1.

"It's, like, _major,_ Dude! I mean, there I was, on vacation, yo, just checkin' out the local surf action, when these bugs, like, come out of _nowhere!_ Totally harshed my buzz, Scotty. You know where I'm comin' from? Got some rad footage, though. Gotta feed the need, if I wanna keep those hits rollin' in"

By now, the car had raised Brandon high enough to rap on the Bird's lower canopy, grinning, waving, and worst of all… _recording_. Weakly, Scott waved back. Even smiled, a little.

"Then, like, this weird uber-bug, mother-ship bashes out of a building, all the power goes out, and… _whoa_ , like… Dude: whoa to the max! Fires break out all over town. Even the river, Bro! That is some crazy sh*t, for _cereal!"_

Feeling more trapped than he had by the Hood, Scott opened his canopy, and allowed Brandon to climb on inside. The elevator car sped off, but the kid went on talking, even while giving his hero a great, big, bear hug.

"So, then, like, picture it, Bro: Brandon Berenger… B-Rad, himself… fightin' off drones and bashing fires with a table cloth, helpin' the oldies escape from our hotel, when… No way, Dude! Just… no frickin' _way!_ Thunderbird 2 roars past, _right overhead!_ I got footage like you wouldn't believe, yo! Posted right there, from ground zero! And then, and then, okay, this is totally maximal… _primo_ stuff, Scotty… Thunderbird 2 and the Bugster go toe-to-toe in the sky, just dukin' it out, man! I was like, _whoa."_

"Got it all on camera, huh?" Scott asked, trying to smile for Brandon's many millions of ogling fans. The red-head lifted both eyebrows in exaggerated shock.

"Okay, _duh!_ Only the whole frickin' battle, uploaded _first!_ Beat everybody! You should see my traffic log, Bro! Twenty-five million hits, and counting, just _today!_ So, like, when Kayo texted me, and was all like, _"Hey, B-Rad, your ol' buddy Scott's up there alone, with no one to hang with, whyn't you go do the social?"_ Well, I'm into it, Bro! Totally on the bus, know what I mean?"

"Kayo… texted you?" Scott enquired evenly. Just, you know… seeking clarification, and plotting eventual murder.

"Oh, yeah. Totally, Dude. Your sister's, like, all about your welfare, Man. You are _one_ lucky mofo… except, maybe not, 'cause it might suck to have total hotness like _that_ for a sister. My condolences, Man."

And he put out his fist for a bump, which Scott returned, after a brief, tooth-grinding delay. Of course, the kid took a seat in back and went on talking, his V-logger helmet recording the whole conversation.

"Dude, she's, like, _everything._ Got all a chick needs, in _all_ the right places, ya feel me, Bro? So… you think she'd ever, like, go for a guy like me, Scotty?"

The pilot blinked, then smiled, slow and crafty.

"Kayo? Go for _you,_ Brandon? Absolutely. Buddy, you are _exactly_ her type. I can hear the bells, now."

Brandon's dark eyes flew wide open, and his jaw wagged for a long, soundless moment. Then, in an awed whisper,

"Are you… Are you _sh*tting_ me, Scotty-man, King of the Dread Pirates? She'd dig B-Rad, himself?"

"Wait," Scott cut in, turning his seat to face Brandon's. " _Pirates_? How did you hear…?"

Brandon winked at him.

"Dude, Man, Kayo totally spilled how you captured a pirate ship and tossed the crew, then blew up some over-charging power satellites, and got nailed by the po-po. I feel ya, Bro," the kid commiserated, patting Scott's tense shoulder. "A life of true excellence has its price, yo. Done my time before the man, too. Framed my mug shots, and hung 'em up in the Rad-cave."

Scott slumped in his seat, thanking God that his father, at least, wasn't one of B-Rad's avid followers. Then, he heard the thin wailing of a distant alarm, followed by a broadcast announcement.

 _"Attention: The west flood-control valve has ruptured. Flooding is imminent in western and southern Jakarta. All residents are advised to seek high ground, immediately. Repeat: the west flood-control valve has ruptured. Flooding is imminent!"_

Scott's expression hardened (very much resembling the "manly scowl" that Alan had tried so hard to achieve). Casting off those power-feed lines with the flick of a key, he snapped,

"Brandon, strap in. We've got a city to save!"

"Sweeeeet!" Brandon crowed. "This is it, the real thing, Dudes and Chicas! B-Rad, swingin' into action with the Scottster, the Scottsman, the Scott-a-roonie, just like old times! Let's go, Man! We're _live!"_

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Somewhat later, over London-_

Parker had followed a flight path, and minded his traffic regs. Kayo did not; relying on her Bird's comm and radar invisibility, and her own quick reflexes, to keep her off the World Council's viewscreens. It was another cold, moonless night in the sleeping city. Just the sort she liked best.

The maximum-security hospital had been cordoned off from ground level, with police barricades and detectives set about to deter onlookers. Well, Tanusha wasn't coming in from below, nor landing, either. Needed a place to pull in, though.

Looking down through her canopy, the girl saw a hastily tarped-over hole in the building's stone side. Saw floodlights swinging about of their own accord, and mechanical taser arms crouching and striking like cobras, as though… well, almost like they'd been given life, and a bit of intelligence. Interested, Kayo circled the roof from high above, taking close-up pictures for Dad, with her Bird's telephoto app.

There was a roof entrance, she noticed, close by the med-flight helipad. That one was torn apart even worse than the building's side. Robotic taser arms defended it, _and_ the roof's edge, but Kayo had plenty of cyber-locks and EM-disruptors. Also, she liked a challenge.

"Hard way it is, then," she murmured, beginning to smile. Her cousin's presence in her mind was small, but intense. He was watching, but only that… so far. "Try to stay out of my way," she told him, feeling that icy excitement, that hungering thrill.

Popping the canopy, Kayo waited until Shadow had eluded those blindly fumbling searchlights, and then swooped in over the helipad. Next, she unstrapped to somersault up and out of the cockpit, landing at dead-center on the big, white-painted **'H'.** Dropped into a crouch, then, as Shadow lifted silently upward, out of range.

Here on the roof, those tasers and searchlights were noisy; crackling and humming with vicious power, as they followed their last clear directive to prevent admittance of any sort. Briefly, Kayo considered disabling them all, then decided that, just like the Hood's kidnapper, she _didn't_ want company. Simple matter to thread, duck and weave right between them, staying always just out of camera range. Fun, really; the sort of exercise she rarely got, away from the ranch house and "danger rooms".

"Have to add this scenario to our routine," she decided, enjoying the rush, the heightened senses that always accompanied hazardous action. An unfortunate night-bird flew past, only to be zapped from the air… now just a burst, feather-spilling carcass… by two of those lashing taser arms.

"Right," she breathed. "Phasers _not_ set on stun, then. Note taken."

Cautious but quick, the girl slunk, darted, spun and danced her way through a gauntlet of rabid defenses; triggering none of them. Felt surprise and approval from Nikorr, who apparently hadn't expected much. For his benefit, she paused at the shattered roof-entrance door, straightened and stretched like a languid cat; showing off _all_ of those muscles and curves. Then, slitting the plastic tarpaulin, Kayo went in.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jove Station, at the seedy and crowded Storm Front bar-_

There was an old line that went, "I don't go looking for trouble. It finds me." John had gone along with Captain Taylor, thinking that he could probably talk the older man out of doing anything dumb. Except that crap, once it starts hitting the proverbial fan, tends to be flung in all sorts of directions, at very high speeds.

The place might have started out as a high-end bistro with brass fittings and hanging plants, but nearly a year of miners and freighter crews had converted it into the total dive they preferred. There could have been fancy wallpaper and carefully arranged holos, once; but graffiti, knife scars and exotic dancers obscured any trace.

Music was playing, very harsh and extremely loud. Lighting was bad, and the smells a mixture of spilt drinks, burnt food, bodily fluids and smoke. The dense crowd was partly Earth-Human, part colonist; some big, squat heavy-worlders, a number of spindly, exo-suited cloud dwellers, and at least three pirates. John knew this, because the trio announced it; looking over, then rising to meet them at the bar's stuck-open door.

"You!" the biggest one snarled, stabbing a sausage-like finger at Lee's chest. "You're one a them rescue-pukes, ain'tcha!"

To call him a gorilla would have been kind… and an injustice to simians, everywhere. He was a mountain, seemingly held together by hair, motor chains and scar tissue. The two behind him were nearly as big, and twice as ugly. Option one, then, apparently. Taylor smiled; tense in a way that John had learned only meant trouble.

"Could be," he drawled, shifting his stance a bit, for swift action. "Who's askin'?"

"Royce Clarke! Pirate lord, n' first mate on the Black Flag!" He could not seem to speak below a roar. "My ol' friend Dobbs got his ship took away by one a you bastards! Tossed out in space to fend for hisself, and him with a cracked skull! What d'ya say to _that_ , huh?!"

Another attempted finger stab, at John, this time. Only, the astronaut's general policy was not to be in the place that people were aiming. He leaned away from that meaty, thrusting finger, too quick to be touched.

"Soft as cake, ain'tcha, Pretty Boy?" the man sneered, reaching forward.

And then, John exploded. Once again, just forgot everything, and stopped really s _eeing_. Wasn't Lee who threw the first punch, although Taylor did hold the other two off for him, destroying furniture, downing a beer, and knocking the barkeep unconscious, in the process.

John doubled the pirate over with a powerful blow to the gut, then seized his dreadlocked dark hair and smashed his head down to meet an up-rushing knee. The pirate staggered backward, spitting curses and teeth. Only, John wasn't finished, yet. One crushing, augmented punch after another hit home, because he _really… didn't… like… being… called… '_ _pretty boy'_ _._

The man crashed to the deck like a felled sequoia, smashing two tables to splinters. Station security soon arrived, but not before Lee pulled John aside and got him calmed down. So, yeah… their third night at the station was spent in the brig, until Alan and Conrad showed up with bail money.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _London, at the maximum-security medical ward-_

Like a shadow, herself, Tanusha slipped through the plastic, and into a scene of utter destruction. Someone large had come through in a hurry, ripping camera mounts out of the wall, and doors off their hinges. Heavy, too, whoever he was. The tiled floor was cracked in a number of places, as though tremendous downward force had been applied, mostly in front of those twisted-loose doors.

There were still bloodstains here and about, as well as hologrammed body-shapes. A suspicion was beginning to form in Tanusha's mind, but she hadn't decided. Not yet. She stood still, and closed her eyes: feeling the air currents, testing the scents. Smelt blood and fear and metal, plus… _there._ And, again, some sort of cooked-smelling flesh/ metal interface. A cyborg.

Kayo moved on, slipping through doorways that hadn't been opened, so much as demolished. Following the killer's trail, she came at last to the Hood's erstwhile hospital room. He'd been contained in a spherical chamber equipped with energy dampers. These were burnt like Alan's popcorn, while the sphere itself had been ruptured wide open, and blasted to slivers. The hospital bed lay off to one side, bent like a pretzel.

Here were other scents, too. Those of her uncle, and several strangers. Also, the burnt-plastic stench of shock, of terror. More traces… a little girl? Kayo crouched down, closing her eyes again, to sort through all the swirling impressions. Irresistibly, her mind was drawn back to Jakarta, to Scotland, and the Mechanic.

"Most likely," Nikorr agreed, "given available evidence. You make an adequate hound, Cousin."

There was an edge there, as though he was trying to provoke a reaction. So, Kayo rose, blew a small kiss and said,

"Not _all_ I'm good at, Niko… too bad _you'll_ never find out, hmm?"

Then, smugly, Kayo cut their connection. A couple of GDF rent-a-cops strolled past, peering in at the door, but the girl simply brushed their minds and convinced them, _'don't look this way'._ They did not see her. They couldn't.

Power like that made her thrill… made her tingle. But also, she wanted to cry. Wanted a brother to curl up with and tease, who would tell her she wasn't so bad as all that.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

 _The hive ship, soaring fast and high over South America-_

Kane stepped away from the control pedestal and detached himself from its feeds. The ship would follow directions for the time being, and he wanted to check on his prisoner; needed to be sure that the future corpse remained stunned. South America was a dicey flyover, being Vega territory, but he didn't intend any harm. To _them,_ at least.

"Ilya," he said, to the bridge's sole other occupant.

"Sir?" the boy responded, turning to face him with eager alertness.

"Keep an eye on things. Ship knows what it's doing, but might have some questions, if unusual weather comes up, or… visitors."

"Yes, Sir. And I'll keep practicing with the gun…" Ilya took a deep breath, as though screwing up his courage, then almost exploded with, "… _Kane!_ On virtual mode, I mean. Next time there's a Tracy, I won't miss. Not even once."

The Mechanic grunted.

"Good. I'm going below. Anything happens, contact me."

His personal comm frequency now accessed both of the kids, who'd been given the means to call out, when they needed to. Not the usual way to start up a family… hadn't cloned himself, yet… but useful. And loyal, so far.

Once outside of the bridge, the Mechanic cut on his jetpack and shot across his ship's vast, humming interior, dodging streams of drone traffic until he reached his prisoner's cell. It was a sort of bubble grown from the living metallic substance of the ship. Not very large, but bordered by a wide, railed balcony, and gated with shimmering force. The girl was there, standing up by the cell door, and…

Kane hovered in midair, watching closely. Although the Hood was unconscious (his head still drooped on his reedy neck, and his green eyes, though open, were vague and unfocused) he was standing upright, lurching back and forth in his cell like a puppet. His arms waved about, and he said, in a man's voice, but child's words,

"Big, stinky man! No-hair man! Bad! Dance, now!"

And then, the Hood pirouetted, stumbling and jerking around in his cell as though drunk. Kane stared. Other than a prison hospital ward, the last time he'd seen the man was when he'd been trapped, having his cybernetic parts sawed away. That memory was black, searing poison. Then, _this_. Behind his breath mask, Kane barked a short laugh. This was beautiful. Perfect.

The little girl turned, allowing her toy to flop to the deck.

" _Kane_!" she shrieked, hopping up and down and holding both arms out. Her meat leg thudded softly. Her cyborg one rang.

The Mechanic jet-packed onto the balcony, permitting small Katrin to rush up and climb him, just like a drone.

"Kane!' she repeated, hugging his neck and rubbing her cheek on his broad, armoured chest. "Hi, Kane! You here! You here!"

An image sprang into his mind, of himself, patting her back. For some reason, he did it, triggering warmth from the girl. Feedback loop, of some sort. Unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.

Meanwhile, his prisoner lay in a heap; satisfactorily crushed and extinguished. Might need more toys for the girl, Kane mused, once she'd finished with this one.


	38. Chapter 38

Thank you, Guest, and Bow Echo! =)

 **38**

 _Jakarta, in gathering storm conditions-_

The afflicted valve lay deep in the throat of a flood control culvert; one of those leading from river to ocean. Ought to have stayed clear and dry, as it wasn't monsoon season… but a storm surge from the south had raised sea levels dangerously high. Stressed by power failure, drone raids and fire, the valve had popped like a bubble. Seawater, grey-brown and spuming, began to churn through, while people seized whatever they cared about and ran for their lives. Meanwhile, dark clouds streamed. Distant thunder growled low.

Thunderbird 1 cut through the battering wind, heading westward. Scott had called up a map of the flood-control network, which hung in the air before him, marked in bright, flaring red where the trouble spot lay.

"Gotta get those generators up," he muttered, keeping his Bird's nose to the gale. "If the pumps stay down much longer, we'll have another Atlantis."

In the background, seeming part of the music of wind scream and engine roar, he heard Brandon. In an awed whisper, the kid told his followers,

"The Scottster, man… just studyin' the situation… makin' decisions… always thinkin', always stoked."

Okay… it wasn't _that_ difficult to fly and talk at the same time, but the admiring chorus felt good, anyhow. (So, maybe he posed, a bit; making sure to turn the right profile, and think out loud in a deep voice.)

They were over the culvert, now; watching swirling brown water spill forth in huge, gushing spurts. Looked like a hemorrhage.

"Going to have to get in there and repair the valve, or collapse that tunnel," the pilot decided. Behind him, Brandon said,

"Like Broses, man! He's gonna part the Red Sea and save all the Hebros… and we're right here, live in the cockpit, with our main man, Scotty, watchin' the master at work. Dude! _So_ not worthy!"

Scott snatched a repair kit from the overhead, and then a few bandoliers of plastic explosive. Looking at B-Rad… and the camera… he asked,

"Brandon, you know how to fly a plane?"

The kid blinked, then swallowed, saying,

"Well, yeah, kinda… I mean, since our last rad adventure, I took a few lessons, yo, but…"

"Good. You may have to. Don't touch anything, unless I don't come out of there. Then, fly her down, and… Well, do whatever you can to help those people escape. Got it? I've alerted the Island, and Virgil should be on his way."

Owl-eyed, Brandon gave him a nod and salute.

"Totally, Bro! B-Rad's right there with you, ready to mix it up. But, like… you know… stay safe and sh*t, okay, Dude?"

Scott paused in his preparations, turned to face the camera, and smiled that patented, dimpled smile. The one that broke hearts, all over the planet.

"You don't save the world by protecting _yourself,_ Brandon," he said, first winking, then triggering cabin-deploy. All at once, the cockpit filled with noise and wind, as Scott's seat lowered him out of the hovering Bird. Then he unstrapped, stood up (heroically), cut on his jetpack, and thundered away.

Behind him, Brandon Berenger whispered,

"You heard it, Dudes n' Chicas, right from the Scottsman, himself… B-Rad's best friend and homey. You wanna save the world, you gotta put it all on the line, yo! That's all of _us,_ too. Not just the big dawgs. Bros and chicks together, makin' it happen. Whoa, Dude… Just, _whoa._ Mind… blown!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jove Station, at the brig holding tank-_

They'd taken turns at watch; one sleeping, the other sitting up on the wall-bunk's edge, facing a nervous handful of drunks and thieves. It was John's turn to rest, while Lee stared down the local thugs; daring them, with posture and gaze, to start something.

John wasn't asleep. Just drowsing… or, that's what he'd _thought,_ anyhow. Afterward, wasn't so sure. There was no blanket or pillow on the bunk they'd claimed, and the engine rumble was all wrong. _Not_ 5\. Not even Thunderbird 3.

 _Must've_ fallen asleep, though, because, all at once, Kayo was there, whispering,

"Scoot over!" and curling up with her head on his chest. Then, taking in their surroundings, she sat half-up again, blurting, "John! You've been captured? You're in trouble?"

He shook his head, a little embarrassed.

"Not exactly. Um… in the brig, actually, with Captain Taylor."

"Why?!" she demanded, not raising any comment from the all-male crowd. In fact, they'd disappeared. Weren't present at all, anymore. But then, he was dreaming, right? Weird sh*t happened, in dreams.

"Well," John floundered, finally admitting, "We got into a fight, sort of. Didn't last very long."

"Seriously? _Again?_ I just got you out of trouble for the _last_ one!"

Exasperated, his sister shoved him hard with her shoulder, then cuddled back up again.

"Why are boys always so _stupid?"_ she grumbled, rubbing her head against his ribs. "You're nothing but work, Brother-mine; all day, every day. If it wasn't for me and Eos, you'd be a smear or a grease spot, by now!"

John smiled. Decided that she might have a point there, but was d*mned if he'd admit to it. Stroking her black hair, he kissed the girl's forehead.

"I dunno," he said, shrugging a little. "Sh*t just keeps happening, and I react. Sometimes it works… sometimes I end up in jail."

"Tell me you _won,_ at least?" Kayo murmured, closing her eyes and slowly relaxing.

"Yeah… pretty much," he replied, adding, "Anyhow, I don't think he'll use those particular words, again. Not to _me,_ at least."

The girl changed position a few times, as though trying to work something out. Then, in a very small voice, she said,

"John…?"

"Hmmm?" He was sleepy, in the middle of dreaming. Weird.

"Do you think…? I'm still _good_ , right? I mean…" She sat up, suddenly, her green eyes wide and troubled. "I couldn't do anything to make you hate me, could I? Not if… not if what I was doing was for a good reason, right? I mean, whatever happens, you'll always trust me, won't you, John?"

He sat up on the bunk, pulling one knee up to rest his arm on, then drawing her closer.

"That sounds like a serious question," he said, all at once dream-awake.

Kayo nodded.

"It's just… maybe I'd do things, and they'd _seem_ wrong, but it's still me. Still TinTin, and… no matter what, you'd trust me? If I called you for help, you'd come?"

John mussed her black hair, saying,

"Sweetie, I've know you since I was seven years old. I gave you half of my sandwich, the day Dad brought you home. That Christmas, I lied, and told Scott I didn't know who wrecked his model airplane."

She giggled.

"Sorry about that. I was only trying to fly it. I'm a much better pilot _now,_ though. Sorry he thought it was _you_."

"I trust you," he said, simply. "You're my favourite sister. And, yeah… if it comes right down to it, Little Bit…"

"You side with me?" she asked, gazing intently at her brother. Slowly, he nodded.

"I side with you," he promised her. Then he awoke, sitting up with a jerk, because dream-Kayo had leaned forward to kiss his cheek, ending… whatever it was.

Lee turned half around, saying over one broad shoulder,

"We ain't supposed ta switch f'r another fifteen minutes, son."

"No. That's okay, Sir… I'm awake, now. Tag, you're it."

They switched places, John now sitting up on the bunk's edge to face that small crowd of huddled inmates. None of them met his gaze, or spoke above a furtive whisper. Appeared that he and Taylor were developing a bit of a reputation, in certain circles.

Behind him, Lee stretched and grumbled, settling in. Then,

"Got a red-head temper, I notice," said the older man. "Y'r mamma was just th' same way. Sweet as pie, most o' th' time, then, BAM! Git outta th' line o' fire, if ya values y'r life. Jeffery done th' world a service, takin' that one on."

John didn't look back there, but he smiled.

"You knew her pretty well, Sir?"

"H*ll, yeah, I did!" Lee snorted. "Lisa was m' d*mn niece. How d'ya think y'r daddy met her, in th' first place?"

"Dunno, really. Never asked," John admitted. Then, "Uncle Lee, could I ask you a dumb question?"

"Fire away, Jase," the older man yawned.

"How come you never call us by the right names?"

Taylor chuckled.

"Well, h*ll," he drawled. "Where's th' fun in _that?"_ Then, he started to snore.

XXXXXXXXXX

 _Tierra del Fuego, the hive ship-_

Just a mountainous, wind-scoured patch of rock, with a few tenaciously clinging plants. That was Isla Grande. Had a small fuel depot and landing strip, though. The last one, and the least well-guarded, before Antarctica. Not that its wardens had put up much of a fight.

Kane would have killed them all, but a suggestion in his head… that he allow the terrified men to be disarmed and locked in their hut… seemed alright, too. Less hassle, and not a big deal, so long as he got his fuel, and some food supplies. The ship was drinking deep of that punctured white tank, using a long proboscis of metal and rubber. Almost done, too, after hours of pumping.

He decided to stretch his legs a bit, while the mind-controlled Hood helped a squad of drones to load up their ship. Walking to land's-end, he looked out over rough grey-green seas, watching those towering, ice-flecked waves batter the cliff face. The sky was a coarse, bumpy grey, lashed by a whistling gale. Might have been twenty or thirty degrees, by the Fahrenheit scale.

Not a good place for visitors, he would have thought. And yet, like it or not, one had found him. A ship broke through the cloud layer, and began to descend. He recognized the type; light transport flitter, rarely used since the conflict. Made an odd humming noise as it flew; looking and sounding like an ungainly chrome beetle.

The Mechanic stood with arms folded, waiting impassively by the cliff's edge, until the visiting ship had crunched to a landing, and its boarding ramp rumbled down. Ilya came running up to join him, that oversized rifle bouncing and slapping against the boy's skinny back. The girl came, too; more slowly, as she was still controlling his empty-eyed prisoner. Kane shook his head. As if he needed d*mn _children_ to deal with a messenger from one of the…

 _Not_ a messenger, the Mechanic corrected himself. It was the Kane, herself, who stalked down that booming ramp, looking… impatient. Reaching its base, she turned her head this way and that, taking in rocks, mountains, lichens and spindrift. Then she said, in her clashing metallic voice,

"No better than Scotland. I would have hoped, Evan, that if you insisted on dragging me from the Stronghold, you would at _least_ have picked someplace less humid."

He shook his head, edging a little in front of the curious kids.

"I did not summon you, Madame. And I won't return with you, either."

Her gaze drifted back from the landscape, to Kane. Half of her beautiful face was flesh, with a wide amber eye set off by dark lashes. The other half was silvery metal, with a red cyborg lens, and long, fiber optic 'hair' on its scalp. At the moment, its color was purple. The natural side, like his own, was dark brown. Neither half of her face wore much expression, at first. Then, she caught sight of the children; scanned them in multiple frequencies. Guard hut, too. Her nostrils twitched, and her target-lock activated.

"What are _those?"_ she demanded, adding, "Has that grub been _implanted?"_

…For Katrin's internal circuitry could not be hid from the mother of cyborgs. Casually, Kane once more stepped between her glittering target laser, and the children.

"They are assistants," he said. "I have made certain adjustments, causing them to be of more use."

"Ridiculous!" she snapped. "You will end this foolishness, Evan. I have no more patience for your antics, however diverting."

Shifting her attention to the numb, swaying Hood, she cocked her sleek head.

"Although… I am impressed that you've managed to restrain a Kyrano. I shall expect a full report, once we are home. Now come, Evan. If you wish to delay a bit, before the family is transferred… I will allow it. Up to a year, I will grant, before we must meet. But, enough is enough."

She'd been moving forward, her metal feet crunching on rock and shell, her fleshly parts beaded with condensation. Then, she reached out. To touch him, he supposed. Ought to have stepped out of reach, but… stupidly… trusted her. Didn't notice the cyberlock in her hand, until it was too late. Until the thing was on him, and activated. The last time… the Hood had used one, last; holding him helpless and still.

Now, again, he could not move. Could hardly think. Was locked up tight in his head, unable to control his own machine parts. A pair of guards strode out of the flitter. Females, like _her._ Turning her head, Madame Kane said,

"Take him within. Kill _those,"_ she indicated Ilya and his sister with a flick of the targeting laser, "and all of the vermin inside that shed. Then, inform the Kyranos that one of their number is here, needing pickup."

The soldiers started to move, but not quickly enough. A swarm of drones came roaring out of the hive ship, creating a sudden barrier. Ilya darted forward, trying to swing that gun of his into firing position. Katrin (once Sissy) dropped the Hood, and scowled. As the crystalline mechs on her tank top and hair divided again, she seized control of all three intruders, who became instant statues. Her brother's head whipped around to look at the pale, shaking girl. Then, he grinned at her.

"That's it, Katie! Hold them a second, just like that. I got this…"

Re-slinging his rifle, the boy ran up, caught hold of Kane's armour, and climbed for the cyberlock, which was burrowing in. Though it burnt his hand and cut flesh, the boy tore the thing off of his friend. Abruptly released, the Mechanic crashed to his knees, panting hard.

Then, shoving Ilya behind him, the cyborg surged back to his feet. He stalked forward and took the guards by their heads, smashing them together so forcefully that bone snapped, and metal rang. Reaching down, he grabbed for the little girl, who'd rushed up to take his hand. Swung her up to his shoulders, before turning to face Madame Kane.

Ilya had the cyberlock. Mimed placing it on her, with his eyebrows raised. The Mechanic, who was getting better at interpreting that gestural sh*t, nodded. The boy slapped the already active thing on her hip. Now _she_ was imprisoned, trapped in her own metal shell. Only… he wasn't… did not want her harmed. So, he reached over and flipped the alarm switch on her harness, knowing that hordes of their people would arrive within the hour.

"Don't," he snarled, "ever come after me again, Madame. _I_ will decide when we meet, once I've handled a little unfinished business. I will be powerful." He stepped forward, staring hard at the frozen woman. "More than you… more than anyone. Be ready."

His mechs, by this time, were everywhere. On him, on the kids, on the guard hut, in the air. All they awaited was his signal. But Kane turned away, growling,

"Let's go. Nothing here worth taking the trouble to kill."

XXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, early evening-_

Scott Tracy swung athletically into the flood culvert, using his gecko gloves and boots to scurry along its damp, shiny ceiling. Heads-up display showed his route, while the helmet's lamp provided just enough light to see by.

Those gloves and boots kept him attached to the overhead, but Scott's own powerful muscles allowed him to move that way, upside-down like a sloth. Water surged and rumbled less than a foot beneath him, sounding like a freight train. He did his best to ignore it, keeping his inverted gaze fixed forward, careful to maintain three points of contact, at all times.

His heart was racing, but this time, the tension felt good. No headache, at all. Maybe he _was_ just a thrill junkie, Scott mused, as dark water rose higher beneath him. Certainly, he never felt closer to life than when facing death; with one wrong move all that stood between him, and a funeral.

Once again, Scott checked his heads-up display. Less than a hundred yards separated him from the damaged valve. Just a matter of reaching it in time… and that was a tall order. Ignoring caution, he poured on the speed to shave a few minutes, arriving with next to no clearance. The warped valve was almost completely below water, now. It might have been repairable, but not with that torrent blasting through. Gordon could have managed the job, in Thunderbird 4. Scott didn't have the equipment or know-how.

"Well," he grunted, to no one in particular (but picked up by Brandon), "If you can't find a way, you _make_ one."

Got the first bandolier of heavy explosives free of his body, only to lose it in roaring dark water.

"Okay… slow down, Scotty-boy," he told himself. "Try it again."

It was getting hard to see, because the helmet's perma-glass faceplate was streaked and fogging. Had to keep on, though.

More carefully, this time, Scott shrugged out of the second bandolier, pulling it over his head and left arm. Lost his boot grips on the ceiling, which left him hanging on by one hand. Seawater crashed and tore at him, battering the pilot repeatedly against the distorted valve-rim. Still had hold of those explosives, though, and was able to push them around and through the valve's twisted framework. Found and pressed the detonate switch, and then let go of the ceiling. There was a twenty-second countdown, but Scott soon lost track. Wasn't possible to swim in a torrent this rough, and his light showed nothing but a narrow cone of green water, swirling with dirt and debris. He was being rolled and slammed and pounded, thrust against the tunnel walls with enough force to crack his faceplate. Seawater began shooting in through the rift, stinging his eyes and nose; filling his helmet. Scott coughed and gasped. Then his light snapped off, and even that dim, bubble-shot beam disappeared, leaving him drowning in total darkness.

Near the end, he heard and felt a tremendous explosion. A sudden flash and shock wave seemed to lift Scott up and smash him forward, as blackness crashed down all around.


	39. Chapter 39

A short one, this time... Thanks for reviewing, Bow Echo! =)

 **39**

 _Jove Station, in the manager's quarters, earlier-_

Alan Tracy sat on a big, green semicircular couch, surrounded by snack food, and facing a 3D holographic game screen. It's controller, an impulse band, was snugged up tight to his forehead. On the _other_ side, Conrad leaned forward aggressively, also wearing an impulse band; controlling the characters who were currently trying to beat the crap out of Alan's.

Conrad's living area was spacious, well furnished, and decorated in a style that Alan whole-heartedly approved of: early video game/ anime. There was also some B-Rad stuff around the place. Most notably, the teddy bear V-log icon. In a word: _coolness._

Alan was having a blast, filling up on tortilla crisps, cheese dip and take-out Chinese food. His drink of choice was cherry cola, because it made the best-tasting burps… and the longest. (Knew that for a fact, since he and Conrad… an orange soda man… had staged a contest for Gordon, Buddy and Ellie, who filmed it all. Alan had won, resoundingly.)

They were playing Smash Corps, a game that Alan and John faced off in, like, _constantly._ John usually chose Samus, Charizard and Mega Man for his team, but Conrad's was all beef. He'd fielded Bowzer, Snorlax and the Mighty Thor. Heavy hitters, all of them, but not very agile; not quick to get back on the platform, once blasted off.

Alan had chosen the same team he always did, out of loyalty. On his side, Kirby, Mario and Pikachu were… not doing too well. Possibly because he was used to battling John, who always had a deep game in mind, whereas Conrad just hammered him. Literally, in the case of Mighty Thor. Mjolnir could pretty much clear the field, if Bowzer and Snorlax could cover their buddy long enough to let loads of power build up.

The characters were AIs, of course, meaning that they sometimes did their own thing, and retained memories of previous play (explaining why Raichu _still_ wouldn't take the field, for him). He could suggest. He could shout,

"Kirby, _inhale!_ Poyo, Dude!"

…but Kirby might just choose to do a warp star surf, instead; gliding around like an idiot, begging to get picked off. Needless to say, Alan was having the time of his life.

About halfway through the game, a call came in for Conrad. Ordinarily, it would have gone through as a holo, but not with a game in progress. He took it on earbud audio, and not very patiently, either.

"Wait, _who…?_ Uh-huh… Any serious injuries…? Right. How much damage…? No, I'm listening, Chan. Just…. Busy. ( _Crap!_ No fair! D-move, Alan!) _Yeah,_ I'm still here! Okay, just… throw 'em in lock-up. Be down in a bit. Got something to handle, first."

Alan would have asked, but he was too busy celebrating over the defeat of Bowzer, who'd been double-teamed by Kirby and Mario, while Pikachu held off Thor. Snorlax had been using 'rest', which left Conrad one short, for sixty vital seconds.

"Ah-ha-ha! Take _that,_ Station-Boy! You _suck!_ Your team is _trash!"_

Then Thor recharged, and hurled Mjolnir, leaving nothing of poor Pikachu but a shower of glittering sparks, and one dented, wobbling pokéball.

"Oh, no, you _didn't!"_ Alan snarled. "Craptard! That's it, butthole, you're going _down!"_

Conrad's blue eyes fairly glowed, as he leaned farther forward, growling,

"Come and get it, Rocket-Jock! We are _ready_ for your ass!"

The battle raged on, shifting its environment unpredictably, so that sometimes one character was favoured, sometimes another. Crap like that could change the course of a fight in mid-punch, as altered gravity or sudden high winds and poison made a move super-effective, or turned it to whipped cream and rose petals.

Time passed… Alan and Conrad lost track of the hours… but, finally, "Rocket-Jock" emerged victorious. Score 1, for the Tracys. Then, because he'd been holding it forever, Conrad needed to dash off and pee.

"Only reason you won, y'know," he protested, as he came out of the head, wiping both hands on his loose khaki shorts. "I was _distracted."_

"Yeah, right. Whatever. You lost, Man. Drink it in. Live the eternal shame, and the horror," Alan replied, quite smugly. Then he stuffed a fresh handful of tortilla crisps in his mouth, chewed loudly, and wiped grease and crumbs away with a vigorous scrub from the back of his arm. "Wanna go again? Best two out of three?"

'Cause, like, seriously, this was the _life._ Decent food, games all day, and a buddy to hang with, who _didn't_ think he was just a kid brother. What more could a guy ask for?

"You better believe it!" said Conrad, starting to reach for his impulse band. Then, as memory struck, he slapped his own forehead. "Crap! I forgot. Oh, well… it's not like they'll get into any more trouble down in the brig, right?"

Alan was already calling his team, including the understandably reluctant Pikachu. Only half-heard Conrad's question, but assumed that a troop of drunk miners or freighter crews had gotten rowdy, and had to chill out, for a while.

"Yeah, whatever, Bro," he muttered. "Quit stalling, and call your team. A little jail time never hurt anybody." (This, around a quick mouthful of cold, Kung Pao chicken, the breakfast of champions.)

Another few hours passed, only, this time, Conrad won the bout, which meant that round three was an _absolute_ requirement. Ordered in pizza, too, with everything the galley could throw on top, plus melted marshmallows. Then, took a short, passed-out nap right there on the couch, still dreaming in game-glow and critical hits; still speckled with food.

Eventually, Alan burped himself conscious. Woke Conrad by throwing a couch pillow at him (forgetting his own strength; almost put the dude's eye out).

"Hey, who got arrested?" Alan yawned, while peering among all those boxes and bags for anything edible.

"Oh… that's right," said Conrad, sitting up and rubbing his half-shut eye. "Forgot to mention that, didn't I? Your brother."

Alan looked up, then sighed.

"What's Gordon done, _this_ time?" he grumped.

Conrad shook his head, wondering whether there was any ice left, to put on that fast-swelling eye.

 _"Not_ Gordon. He's still out with Buddy and Ellie, as far as I know, filming background shots. It's John… _and_ Captain Taylor."

Alan's jaw dropped, revealing a mouthful of leftover pizza. In a hurry, he swallowed, almost choking with shock.

 _"Seriously?_ John… got arrested? _And_ Uncle Lee? What for?"

Conrad's mouth twitched, like he really wanted to laugh.

"Fighting. Apparently, they beat up some of the usual suspects, and trashed my bar, which… okay, was sort of jacked-up, to begin with. Still, they've been charged with disorderly conduct, and bail's been set at… hold on, lemme check… 25,000. Apiece. Can you spring them, or have I just won myself a couple of long-term guests?"

Alan slumped on the couch, looking like he'd been slapped by his mamma, then hit by a bus.

"Twenty-five… _fifty-_ thousand credits? For a couple of idiot astronauts? What'd they do? Bust a hole in the ring? That's all the money I _got!_ Grandma's locked up all the rest, in that stupid trust fund!"

Conrad winced, sympathetically.

"I'd help, Al… really, I would, but it could come across as favouritism. I'm supposed to be impartial, even with friends."

"And they can't pay for _themselves?!"_ Alan demanded, voice cracking a little, there at the end. He was a sad, broken man.

Conrad shook his head, saying,

"Their assets were frozen, just as soon as my officers cuffed them. It's the law, Alan. They'll do six months somewhere awful, or get bailed out, one or the other. Maybe Gordon can help?"

"Pfft!" Alan blurted, throwing both hands up. _"Gordon?_ He's broke, like _perpetually._ Spends his allowance as soon as he gets it, and has to borrow from _me._ He could wash dishes, or something, but that's about it."

Alan sagged, dropping his head in his hands. Never occurred to him to call Dad for money or help, because the Bro-code said that you solved your own problems, without snitching.

"Yeah, okay," he mumbled. "Let's get dressed, and go rescue the jailbirds… but if they think I'm letting this drop, like, _ever,_ they're crazy! And, John better pay me back, too, with frickin' _interest!"_

Alan was not in a good mood at all, when he left with Conrad to go claim Inmates 1024 and 1025.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 _Jakarta, in dark, surging water-_

Scott clung to a fragment of consciousness; feeling one mighty blow after another. Staring at a tiny sparkle of light. Pretty and beckoning, like a star. Something big and heavy fell past and struck his leg, yanking him downward. Reflexively, Scott jerked away, pulling his limbs in close.

Couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't find the surface. Would have to inhale, soon… could not fight it, much longer. Then, like a shark, something struck him; plunging down from above, then angling upward…

And Scott lost his battle with reflex.


	40. Chapter 40

Hi! Two more chapters, tops, and I'm outta your hair. As always, thanks for reading. ;)

 **40**

 _Jakarta, on an evening of wind and floods and spattering rain-_

He was… being… being pounded. _Hard,_ on the chest. Scott opened his eyes and jerked halfway upright, coughing a torrent of bitter green water at Brandon, who was already soaked to the skin. The kid's face was very close and huge eyed, topped by that red, blinking V-log recording light. Rain fell in sheets all around them, blocked just a bit by the hovering Bird.

"Dude, man," Brandon pleaded. "We're broadcasting, Bro! You _gotta_ pull through! I got ten million likes for 'Scott makes it'!"

The pilot gasped and coughed, feeling like his throat had been scrubbed out with steel wool. Shivered, too; terribly feeble and awfully cold.

"Brandon…" he croaked. " _You_ … rescued?

The young V-logger grinned at him, lit up by the warm glow of Thunderbird 1, keeping in place, up above them.

"Well, _duh…!"_ Brandon answered, preening a little. "I only, like, did a whole _summer_ lifeguarding at Bondi Beach, Scotty. It's, like, one of my first rad adventures, yo! Check out the archives!" Then, looking down at the concrete traffic divider on which they were crouched, the kid patted a blue seat cushion, apparently torn from Thunderbird 1. "And the airlines 're totally on point, Dude," he added approvingly. "These things really _do_ work as epic flotation devices! Supported your heavy ass, the whole way!"

Scott laughed. Then, impulsively, he reached out and hugged Brandon close, there amid rumbling brown water; just now starting to recede.

"Thanks, Pal," he said to the kid, patting his sopping-wet back. But then, as suspicion crept in, the pilot leaned away, saying, "Wait… how many _disliked_ 'Scott makes it'?"

"Uh…" Brandon glanced down, again, this time checking his life-proof comm device. "Y'know… a _few_. But, Dude, all the feels, Bro! You did it! World saved!"

Before Scott could ask any more questions, they were transfixed by an eye-searing searchlight. A massive pressure wave rippled their clothing and flesh; rattled their organs and teeth. Squinting upward with bleary, salt-stinging eyes, the pilot saw running lights and a huge, white-painted **'2'** hovering high overhead. Then Virgil's amplified voice boomed out,

"Hey there, lovebirds! You two need a moment, or can I bust things up with a rescue?"

Scott and Brandon looked at each other, startled. Then, they burst out in loud, whooping laughter and coughs, slapping each other on the back. Felt just hella silly, and weak with relief. Then, still grinning, Brandon and Scott helped each other to stand; draping an arm across a friend's shoulders and waving like mad. Shouted Scott,

"All good, Virge! No problems, here! Earn your keep, Buddy; go rescue someone who needs it!"

…and, just for the record, Virgil never _did_ get that lecture.

XXXXXXXXX

 _Jove Station, just after the great Smash Corps tournament of 2065-_

Alan wasn't grumpy, per se… just broke, and not loving it. He'd posted bail for John and Lee Taylor, putting up the only _other_ thing of value he had… Thunderbird 3… as security for their eventual trial. So, yeah. Kind of upset.

Conrad waived the security rules, allowing Alan to come down to the holding tank along with him. Turned out to be worth it, because they could hear Lee's flat, drawling voice before they rounded the last corner.

"So, anyways, there we was, in the worst sand storm anyone 's ever seen, or heard tell of, in a busted-ass descent capsule, fallin' toward th' surface a' Goddam Mars. The navigation system was fried, by th' same discharge electrocuted the sh*t outta Pete. Well, I ain't shy, or nuthin', but that 'un was too much f'r me, so I says, _"It's all yours, Jeff!"_ n' transferred control o' th' capsule ta Tracy; Smiley, here's, daddy _. "Git th' Nav system back up!"_ he says, an' takes over flyin', cool as ya please."

"What happened then?" asked a stranger's hushed, anxious voice, just as Alan and Conrad hove into view. They saw two guards, and the inmates, gathered close, listening to Taylor's wild story. The old astronaut was one-hundred percent in his element; gesturing with both hands, and shifting expressions to suit different characters. Oddly enough, he really _did_ look and sound like Dad, when speaking as Jeff. Something about the stance, maybe, or that stern, prideful gaze.

Conrad broke the spell with an artificial cough. To the guards, he said,

"1024 and 1025, out of there, please."

John had been sitting back on the bunk with his hands behind his head. Maybe listening, maybe not. Now he stood up and dusted off, a little; looking the same as ever. A few bruises and a cut over one eyebrow, was all.

"Alvin! Carter!" Lee greeted them; battered, but cheerful. "Good ta see ya, boys! Take it ya paid our d*mn ransom? We're free ta go?"

"Sort of, Captain Taylor," Conrad responded, smiling nervously. Sounded nothing like he had whilst playing Smash Corps. "You guys still have to show up for your court date, in a few months… but the other combatants posted bail an hour after arrest. They're long gone. Probably won't come back, either."

John didn't comment, but Lee seemed interested.

"So… them charges 'll git dropped?" he suggested.

Conrad shook his head, no.

"Probably not _dropped,_ Sir. But, lowered, possibly. 'Criminal Mischief', or something like that, if I know my judge… and I _do_."

Meanwhile, release was in process. The guards, one standing watch while the other pressed virtual keys, shifted the holding cell's energy field. Those prisoners barcoded '1024' and '1025' were now able to step on through. John stalked out without a word or a backward glance. Lee, though, paused and looked around at his wistful cellmates.

"Tell ya what," he said, "Any a' y'all as wants ta stand me a drink when ya gets out, c'n hear th' rest a th' story." Then, he mimed tipping a broad-brimmed hat, adding, "Ask f'r Taylor."

As for John, he'd come up to stand beside Alan. Not looking at his younger brother, he asked quietly,

"How much do I owe you?"

Alan's freckled face twisted some, as a battle raged in his head and his wallet. Was too proud to look like it mattered. Like posting bail had left him penniless, or something, but…

"Oh, y'know… a few thousand. Three. Three thousand credits." Enough to survive on, till his next allowance deposit. On his other side, Conrad's blue eyes widened. Didn't say anything, though. For that matter, neither did John.

The astronaut shrugged, then went to the desk to collect his personal effects, along with Taylor. _That_ turned out to be more than expected, because the pretty clerk didn't just hand them a couple of plastic trays with their ID and devices. She held up a slim hand, saying,

"Just a moment, gentlemen," the turned and called over one shoulder, "Bring it in, Tommy, they're here!"

As Conrad, the brothers and Taylor looked on, a young security officer backed through the storage room door, hauling a grav-cart loaded with grey metal boxes in two stacks, marked 'Puke' and 'Asshole'.

"Don't know which of you gentlemen is which," the blonde clerk quipped drily, "but our free-lance acquisition specialists had this dropped by for you, once Black Flag posted their bail. Apparently, when you beat a pirate, you get what's his. Sign here, please."

John and Lee exchanged glances.

"Well… I reckon you'd be th' rescue puke," drawled Taylor, smoothing his brownish-grey mustache.

"Which makes you the asshole," said John, smiling for the first time all morning. And, yeah, there was a lot in there. An awful lot.

"Boy, howdy!" said Lee. "An' just when I thought I'd hafta pose nekkid, or sumthin', ta pay m' bills an' git Alphy repaired!"

John slung a box at Alan, and another at Conrad.

"Keep the change," he told them.

Two days after that, Thunderbird 3 shot away from Jove Station, heading for home.


	41. Chapter 41

My mantra has been: _the story isn't over, till Thunderbird 3 touches down!_ One way or another, I had to get them all the way back. Thank you, Bow Echo, Guest and Whirl Girl, and all the others who took this ride with me. You guys are great, and I appreciate your reviews more than I can say. =)

 **41**

 _Tracy Island, deep below the round house, at the rocket hangar-_

Captain Ridley O'Bannon stood in Thunderbird 3's vast, empty nest. She'd taken a week's leave for this, waiting until she was certain the rocket would be there on time, before committing herself. She, Scott and Virgil, and her best friend, Emma Kraft, were all out on the hangar's observation balcony, listening to comm chatter between 3, on approach, and Tracy Island. Grandma handled things on this end, with an able assist from Max and Hackenbacker. 'Kayo' was somewhere about, as well; popping in and away on her own schedule, beholden to no one. Colonel Tracy would have been there, too… only business with the oversight committee had taken precedence. Again.

The gathered others spoke from time to time, sharing coffee, snacks and jokes, but O'Bannon just listened; her heart leaping whenever she heard Tracy's voice. Didn't give a d*mn what he was saying. Fuel mix, engine power, ETA… all that mattered was that John had replied to Captain Taylor, or the kid brother, or to Grandma.

Ridley kept her face calm, and her stance casual, although she wanted to leap and cry out, each time he spoke. So many long months had passed, with such spotty communication, that Ridley hadn't even been sure what to wear, or what she'd do when she saw him.

Countdown clock on the balcony's rear wall showed fifteen minutes left till touch down, which Alan confirmed seconds later, over the comm.

"Almost home, guys!" he whooped. "World's longest road trip is just about history. Fifteen minutes, and counting!"

"You okay, Ree?" said a voice, at her side. It was Emma, looking concerned. "You're not normally this quiet."

Only, this wasn't normal. Not at all. Nice thing about Kraft was she didn't push for answers. When Ridley said,

"I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

…the ship's captain left things alone, saying,

"Alan doesn't act old enough to stay up past nine, but he does this stuff all the time, Ree. Plus, there's Taylor and Sneaky Pete… sorry, _John_ … to back him up. They'll be here before you know it."

O'Bannon nodded, resisting the urge to pace, or crack her knuckles. Ten minutes left. Both she and Kraft were out of uniform, Emma looking more feminine than usual, with a flowered top crowning her outfit of jeans and ankle boots. Ridley was wearing a white lace blouse, khaki shorts and rose-gold sandals. Her long auburn hair was back in a French braid, and she'd put on just a little makeup. Some mascara, a touch of pink lipstick, a hint of perfume. Not enough to scream _'take me, I'm yours'_ , but sufficient to hint that any attempted docking maneuvers would not be rebuffed… in a manner of speaking.

Kraft patted Ridley's shoulder, then returned to Virgil, who hauled her back into the shelter of his muscular arm. O'Bannon didn't feel comfortable following her friend, because being third in a couple was awkward, and… well, Scott was there, too. O'Bannon was still locked deep in the 'Persona Non Grotto,' as far as IR's field commander was concerned. He hadn't forgotten that ticket, and his jaw clenched whenever their gazes crossed. Handsome guy, but rigid as a flagpole, seeming hard-wired in the 'yessir' position. Then again, having Colonel Tracy for a father might do that to a guy. Potty-trained at gunpoint, no doubt.

Five minutes. They'd be re-entering Earth's atmosphere, soon. O'Bannon had done it often enough, herself, that she could just about _see_ that cockpit. Could work through the final approach checklist with John, Alan and Taylor.

"Hey, Grandma!" the kid brother was saying, in his bright, squeaky voice. "Please tell me somebody ordered pizza, 'cause you got three hungry astronauts, plus one hairy, loser water-boy, up here. We're ready to jump on anything that moves, including Max!"

A chorus of shrill, outraged beeps and chirps from the robot met this comment. Then she heard Brains' voice, smoothing things over.

"H- He is surely joking, M- Max. You are, ah… are entirely inedible. Will n- not even combust!"

"Dunno about all that," mused Captain Taylor, in that flat, Texan drawl of his. "Little salt n' ketchup, an' ya got y'rself a meal. Be a nice change from what we _been_ eatin'."

Tracy mostly didn't joke. He took his piloting seriously, leaving the humor to Alan, Gordon and Taylor. In her mind's eye, and her heart's touch, she followed all of the Bird's re-entry procedures right along with him, finding comfort in knowing the process.

Then, a new sound cut in over all of that chatter; the low, mechanical growl of a giant door and blast shield, sliding aside. Sunlight flooded the hangar, along with a swirl of red vine-flowers, and a shower of small, drifting leaves. A good omen, Ridley decided, putting her hand in a pocket, before surreptitiously crossing her fingers.

Busy robots began rushing around, preparing 3's tall metal gantry for hook-up and egress. By this time, Ridley's heart was pounding so hard that she could see her own chest rhythmically jerking, and feel the pulse in her ears. Emma came back, again. Not saying anything. Just being there. _Her_ hair was pony-tailed; a switch from the usual blondish-brown up-do, and about as much fuss as Union Jack's captain cared to make. She dug an elbow into O'Bannon's side, hissing,

"Smile, Ree… it's a reunion, not a d*mn root canal. He's still your boyfriend, right?"

Ridley nodded.

"As far as I know."

Emma rolled her green eyes.

"In or out, Chica. You guys are a thing, or you aren't. No two ways about it."

Too difficult… too _complex_ to explain. Then, faintly, at first, they heard the thunder of a very large rocket, battling gravity. Emma squeezed Ridley's arm, smiled, and shot back over to Virgil, again.

The observation balcony was set quite far back, and heavily shielded. Plus, they'd been given protective ear guards to put on. Still, the rocket's entry was earthquake, tornado and thunder-strike loud. The balcony's perma-glass darkened at one point, to keep them from going blind, as the giant red Bird slid home like a piston, riding a column of white-hot flame. O'Bannon's fists clenched, but she did not move, squint, or look away; convincing herself that her vigilance could somehow keep them all safe.

" _Aaaand…_ nailed it!" Alan crowed over the comm, adding, "That, ladies and gentlemen (and Gordon, who's none of the above), is the end of _that!_ All ashore that's going… Well, just 'all ashore'. Love you guys, but I'm sick of you. Scram! Get outta my dang Bird!"

"Don't have to tell _me_ , twice!" came Gordon's amplified voice. " _So_ done with space! Only thing I want now is the beach, and as many females as I can squeeze into Thunderbird 4!"

There was more in that vein, and then, once the fumes of landing had cleared and the hangar status light showed green, they began coming out. Alan, first of all. Then John, and a proudly bewhiskered Gordon, flanking Captain Taylor, who seemed a bit wobbly. Buddy and Ellie had been dropped off at Jove Station, of course, and were already planning a hunt for the 'Storm Beast'. None of that mattered to Ridley, just then. All she saw was Tracy.

He looked scruffily handsome; still in his blue, circuit-shot uniform, unshaven and slightly long-haired, with the sort of space tan you got, past the asteroid belt. Made those blue-green eyes stand out even more, but O'Bannon had ceased cataloging features, and started to run, shoving past Scott at the balcony's hanger-side safety door. A sound rose up in her throat that was half his name, half sob. Her sandaled feet rang loud on the metal gantry, raising echoes all over the hangar. Leapt at him while still running full-tilt, before Tracy could brace himself, or the others could duck aside. Felt like slow motion, but wasn't.

She struck Tracy high, as he was bringing an arm around to embrace her, and stepping away from Lee, with his weight not solid on either foot. They toppled, and went over the gantry railing. She flipped over, dropped for less than a second, and then jerked to a halt, swinging about one hundred-and-fifty feet above the concrete floor. John had caught hold of a steel cross-brace with one hand, and was holding her wrist with the other.

He managed to haul Ridley up to where she could get her legs twined around one of his, and then do a modified 'rope climb', higher along. People were yelling, somewhere above them, but O'Bannon was too busy relearning his body, his scent, to listen. Probably just some crap about "don't move, we'll be right there", anyhow.

Her legs were locked tight about his waist, and he had her in a close, one-armed embrace.

"Happy to see me?" John guessed, after a moment of hanging there.

She sniffled and nodded; eyes closed, face buried in the side of his neck.

"Yeah…" she laughed a little. "You could say that. Wouldn't throw myself over the edge of a gantry with just _anybody."_

A bit more pair gymnastics got her shifted around to where they could kiss; a little shyly, at first, then with growing heat and intensity. His hands were required elsewhere. Hers were quite free to roam.

Virgil eventually clambered up just below them in his powered exo-suit. Had to rap on a metal beam to get their attention.

"Hey, guys," said the big cargo-pilot, with a mostly straight face. "I could hang around here all day, but, uh… people are waiting. How 'bout a raincheck, until you're at least on the d*mn _ground?"_

Gently, he accepted the smiling O'Bannon from John, who was then able to pull himself up onto that cross-brace, and edge on over to the concrete boarding deck. Gecko gloves and magnetic boot soles were a handy thing to have, even on Earth.

Later, at their welcome home dinner, Grandma said grace and asked,

"How was the trip, Boys? We ain't heard a whole lot from you fellas, once you passed Mars, the first time. What all happened?"

A look passed 'round, from Lee to John, to Gordon and Alan. One made up of weariness, success and (just a little) modesty. Captain Taylor leaned back in his seat… which was right beside Grandma's… then yawned and stretched elaborately, doing that casual movie-date arm drape thing, to semi-embrace her.

"Well, Beth, lemme tell ya how it was…"

Gordon rubbed that itchy golden beard of his, grinned, and then went right back to his food, batting away Kayo's snatching hand. Alan just shook his head and sighed, face-palming, hard. Scott, Virgil, Emma and Brains leaned forward to listen.

Meanwhile, John bent nearer to Ridley and whispered, close enough to her ear to provoke a swift turn-and-kiss,

"Three-quarters of what he's about to say is utter bullsh*t. Played it safe the whole time, I swear."

O'Bannon snorted.

"You know it's a court-martial offense, lying to a superior officer, Lieutenant," she reminded him, as Taylor launched into the whole, crazy story.

"I never lie," John protested, doing his best to seem virtuous. "Just find a better angle on the truth."

She grinned at him suddenly, her grey eyes shining with mischief.

"Whatever you say, Tracy… think anyone 'll notice, if we sneak out?"

John looked around, seeing everyone else enthralled by Lee, or their catered steaks. Snagging a beer, he shook his red head and whispered.

"They'd miss an asteroid strike. Let's go."

He got welcomed back an awful lot, that day.


	42. Epilogue

Well, my vacation's just about over, and so is this story. It's back to work, day after tomorrow. Thank you, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl, for helping me out, so much. =)

 **Epilogue**

 _Antarctica, Ross Island, near the end of its six-month 'day'-_

He struck fast and unexpectedly, giving no warning, intending no quarter. The hive ship could be stealthy, when need arose, and each confrontation, each conflict, helped him grow stronger; taught him how better to fight.

He came in low, almost skimming those thundering, iron-grey wave tops. Seconds later, he'd crossed over a barren landscape of rock and twisted ice, hurtling straight for Mt. Erebus, and the Kyranos. They might have tried using Sentinel, except that he'd already disabled the massive laser, remotely. Shut down the rest of their weapons systems, too. Now they could neither track him, nor interfere with his plan.

Directly over the steaming volcano, the hive ship's hold gaped wide, releasing wave after wave of laser-armed hornet drones, each one with a scorpion-mech clasped in its spindly limbs. They shot from the opened hold in a swarm that darkened the sky, like flies leaving a bloated corpse. The hornets struck down resistance with bio-electrical stings and with laser blasts; cutting down airships and ground troops, alike. The scorpions were dropped on the mountainside, where they started to burrow; crushing and slicing through rock.

The little girl, Katrin, defended him from the psions' mind tricks. Protected her brother, too, while he manned the ship's gun. She soon began shaking, though; close to the limits of her power. Crouched on the command pedestal beside him, her eyes were screwed shut, and her lower lip running with blood, where she'd bitten it nearly through. Wouldn't quit, though. Wouldn't back down.

He hesitated, wanting to win… but not at _any_ cost. Coming to a sudden decision, Kane reached down for the girl, and placed a hand on her thin back, giving her a brief shake. Then he took hold of the mindless Hood, and cut on his comm.

"Stop!" snarled the Mechanic. "Stand down, or I'll cut him apart, while you watch. I've come for Sentinel. Stay out of my way, and you get _this_ back…" (here, he shook the Hood like a worthless old rag) "…in one piece. Make trouble, and I _still_ take the laser, destroy your nest, and slaughter everything inside, including your piece-of-sh*t leader. Your choice, Meat. Ten seconds to make it."

Her mind touched his, as though seeking shelter there, but Kane was no psion. All he could do was grow angry, and let her in deeper.

Inside the busy command center, meanwhile, Nikorr turned to his new second, one of their very rare females. Rubbing at a savage migraine, he snapped,

"Are we able to fight him?"

She gazed at her lord, shame-faced and stricken. Scorpion-mechs had already torn out most of the cameras; were digging into the upper chambers. The weapons consoles were sparking and popping, many in flames. Their psionic attacks had been blocked at every turn. His second dropped to her knees before him, and then to all fours, touching her head to the ground. Behind her, all the rest, the entire command crew, did the same.

"No, Kyrano," she whispered. "Not effectively. We can delay, but we shall be defeated."

Lord Kyrano nodded.

"Get up," he said. Then, "Put me through to the hive ship."

The comm officer got a line open, filling their one functioning view screen with the Mechanic's impassive, amber-eyed face. His arms were folded across his muscular chest. He showed neither triumph, nor curiosity, any more than a sated leopard would.

Nikorr's hands were clasped behind his back. His posture was upright. Speaking with difficulty, he dipped his head briefly, saying,

"We will accept my predecessor, in return for Sentinel… with no further resistance."

"Good decision," the Mechanic responded, cutting off the comm, _'But, too late.'_

Because, pressed against his mind, she was crying. He could feel it. Kane smoothed the top of her blonde head with one massive, unaccustomed hand. Then, he reached around and flipped the Hood at one of his waiting drones.

"Drop him in the volcano," he said. "They can fish out whatever's left over, if they want it bad enough."

The big, sleek hornet-mech took up the Hood and darted off with him. One down. To the rest of his army, with word and gesture, Kane said,

"Dig Sentinel out of its housing, and bring it to me. Ship will receive and incorporate a new component." Then, looking over at Ilya, "See to your sibling. There's aspirin and water in the living space. I can manage."

Nodding gratefully, Ilya stepped away from the gun mount, which shifted configuration once he was off of its pedestal. Carefully, he gathered up his little sister, who did not want to leave; headache, or no. Kane felt her brush at him, near blinded with pain, but he shook his head.

"Go," he told her. "You've earned rest, both of you… and _that_ lot will be no further trouble, at all."

Once the children had left the bridge, Kane returned to his command pedestal, and hooked back into Ship. His drones had carved up the volcano's dark flank, he saw, revealing an enormous chromed laser. Working together, each seizing hold wherever and however they could, each buzzing its swift mechanical wings, his swarm lifted the laser and brought it away from the mountain, dropping a blizzard of torn metal and shattered stone on the way. Ship's hold gaped still wider as it settled over Sentinel; flowing around, hooking up, taking in. Soon, Sentinel was as much a part of Ship, as though it had always been there; mated now to the main gun.

Behind his breath mask, the mechanic smiled. Part one of his plan was complete, or nearly so. For a moment, he let his arms drop, and ceased conducting activity. Just stared out the viewscreen at the devastation he'd brought to the proud Kyranos. At the caved-in volcano and burst defenses. At people scurrying for cover, far below. Then, he said,

"Kill them all. I want nothing left alive. _Move."_

As his drones leapt to obey, the Mechanic turned his thoughts to the Tracys, and the two vital AIs that they harbored. Step two of his plan would take him to Thunderbird 5.


End file.
